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THE COWARD 




BY 

ROBERT HUGH BENSON 

-> i 

AUTHOR OF “THE CONVENTIONALISTS,” “THE NECROMANCERS,” 
“A WINNOWING,” “NONE OTHER GODS,” “THE DAWN 
OF ALL,’ “CHRIST IN THE CHURCH,” ETC. 


ft ’ ■ * 
9 > C 


ST. LOUIS, MO., 1912 
Published by B. Herder 
17 South Broadway 


Copyright, 1912, by Joseph Gummersbach 


PART I 




* 















THE COWARD 


CHAPTER I 

(i) 

TIMBO, the old fox-terrier, suddenly appeared 
^ in the doorway, stood for a moment blinking 
with something of a surly air at the golden level 
sunlight that struck straight down upon him from 
the west, across the sloping park; then he wheezed 
once or twice, and with a long sigh lay down half 
across the threshold, his head on his paws, to watch 
for the return of the riders. He was aware that the 
dressing-bell would ring presently. 

The view he looked upon is probably as well 
known to house-worshippers as any in England ; for 
he lay in the central doorway of Medhurst. Before 
him, on an exact level with his nose, stretched the 
platform-like wide paved space, enclosed by the two 
wings and the front of the Caroline house, broken 
only by the carefully planted saxifrages and small 
weed-like plants that burst out of every line between 
the great grey stones, and ending in the low terrace 
i 


2 


THE COWARD 


approached by two or three steps from the drive. 
It was extraordinarily inconvenient, this separation 
of the main entrance from the drive, on wet nights ; 
but this lordly indifference to comfort had some- 
thing of dignity about it. (Besides, the door in the 
south wing could always be used, if the rain were 
very heavy. ) For the rest, the house is almost pure 
Caroline, except for a few rooms in the south wing 
that are Tudor. It is of grey weather-stained stone, 
of an extremely correct and rich architecture, re- 
strained and grave, except where, over Jimbo’s 
head, the lintel breaks out into triumphant and flam- 
boyant carving — two griffins clawing at one an- 
other over the Medd shield, surmounted again by 
wreaths and lines vaguely suggestive of incoherent 
glory. To the north of the north wing stand the 
great stables, crowned by a turret where a bell rings 
out for the servants’ breakfast, dinner, and tea; to 
the south of the south wing, the laundry, buried in 
gloomy cypresses and resembling a small pagan 
temple. 

Altogether it is a tremendous place, utterly com- 
plete in itself, with an immemorial air about it; the 
great oaks of the park seem, and indeed are, nou- 
veanx riches , beside its splendid and silent aristoc- 
racy, for Medhurst has stood here, built and inhab- 
ited by Medds, pulled down and rebuilt by Medds 
again and again, centuries before these oaks were 


THE COWARD 


3 


acorns. For, as Herald’s College knows very well, 
though the Medds never speak of it, it is reasonably 
probable that a Medd lived here — after what fash- 
ion archaeological historians only can relate — long 
before Saxon blood became tainted and debased by 
Norman. 

It is remarkable that they have never become 
peers (a baronetcy has always, of course, been out of 
the question) ; but the serious fact seems to be that 
they have consistently refused this honour. It is 
not likely that they would have accepted such a 
thing from the upstart Conqueror; and after such 
a refusal as this, any later acceptance was of course 
impossible. In Henry VIII’s reign they remained 
faithful to the old religion, and consequently in 
Elizabeth’s reign were one of the few families in 
whose house their sovereign did not sleep at least 
one night of her existence; in fact they went abroad 
at that time and produced a priest or two, prudently 
handing over their property to a Protestant second 
cousin, whose heir, very honourably, handed it back 
when Charles I came to the throne. And then, 
when danger seemed more or less over, Austin 
Medd, about the time of the Oates Plot, in which he 
seems to have believed, solemnly changed his reli- 
gion with as much dignity as that with which his 
grandfather had maintained it on a certain famous 
occasion which it would be irrelevant to describe. 


4 


THE COWARD 


Now when a Medd has done a thing, deliberately 
and strongly, it naturally becomes impious for later 
Medds to question the propriety of his action; and 
from thenceforth two or three traditions — moral 
heirlooms, so to speak — have been handed down 
at Medhurst. The objective reality of the Oates 
Plot, the essential disloyalty of Catholicism, the 
sacrosanctity of the National Church as a consti- 
tutional fact — these things are not to be doubted 
by any who bears legitimately the name of Medd. 

And so the great family has lived, coming down 
through the centuries solemnly and graciously, each 
generation rising among the associations of a house 
and tradition whose equal is scarcely to be found in 
England, and each generation passing away again 
with the same dignity, and ending down there in the 
Norman church at the foot of the park, where 
Medds have filled long since the vaults of the south 
chapel, among whose dusty rafters a hundred hatch- 
ments have hung and dropped to pieces again. In 
the village itself — Medhurst Village, jealously so 
called, lest the House should lose the honour of the 
original name — the Medds are treated with the 
same kind of inevitable respect and familiarity as 
that which kings and gods obtain from their sub- 
jects and worshippers. Dynasties rise and pass 
away again ; but the Medds go on. There are vari- 
ous kinds of pride — the noisy pride of the self- 


THE COWARD 


5 


made man, the eloquent pride of the enthusiast, 
the steady assertive pride of the sovereign — but 
there is no pride in the universe such as that of 
the Medds, dead silent, claiming nothing, yet cer- 
tain of everything. They have produced soldiers, 
priests, judges, statesmen, bishops, clergymen, and 
the portraits of these worthies throng the hall and 
the parlours ; they have consented to hold the Garter 
three times, and have, more recently, refused it 
twice; a Medd has governed a certain Dominion, 
under pressure, in spite of his commoner rank; 
they have spent two fortunes on kings; a Medd 
has, twice at least, turned the fortune of a battle 
on whose issue hung the possession of a crown; 
there are relics at Medhurst which I simply dare 
not describe, because I should be frankly disbe- 
lieved — relics whose mention does not occur in 
any guide-book. Yet all these things are, honestly, * 
but as dust in the scale to the Medd mind, compared 
with the fact of legitimate Medd blood . . 

And, indeed, it is something to be proud of . . . 

(ii) 

The dressing-bell rang from the turret; and as if 
answer, a great cawing burst out of the high elms 
beyond the stables, as the rooks, settling for the 
night, rose and circled again, either as if taken by 
surprise, or, as seems more likely, following some 


6 


THE COWARD 


immemorial ritual handed down to them through the 
mist of centuries. Then they settled again; and 
Jimbo, who had raised an enquiring face, dropped it 
once more upon his paws. This delay to return 
from the ride, seemed highly unusual; but it still 
remained his duty to be here until the soft thunder 
of hoofs sounded beyond the terrace. It was then 
his business to bark three or four times with closed 
eyes, then to waddle to the head of the steps, where 
he would wag his short tail as General Medd came 
up them ; he would then accompany him to the door 
of the house, going immediately in front of him, 
slightly on the right side; enter the hall-door, go 
straight to the white mat before the hearth; and 
remain there till all came down and dinner was 
announced. Then, once more, he would precede 
the entire party into the dining-room. 

He seemed to be dozing, not an eyebrow lifted 
each time that a sound came from the house be- 
hind. Finally, he lifted his head altogether as a 
tall woman came out, leaning on a stick. 

“Well, where are they, Jimbo?” she said. 

He grunted a little, and replaced his head on his 
paws. 

She looked this way and that, and presently saw 
through the open bedroom window behind her an 
old face, wrinkled, and capped with white, smiling 
and nodding. She waved a hand. 


THE COWARD 


7 


“ Not come home yet, Benty,” she cried. 

The old nurse said something. 

“ Can’t hear,” she said again. “ Never mind ; 
they’ll be back soon.” 

She was a very fine figure as she stood there in 
the level sunlight — close on fifty years old, but as 
upright as a girl. There was a little grey in 
her dark hair, and several lines in her clear face ; her 
lips and brows were level and well-marked, and her 
eyes steady and kind. She was in black from head 
to foot, and she wore a single string of diamonds 
on her breast, and a small star in her hair. But 
she used a rubber-shod stick as she walked, and 
limped even with that, from the effect of an old fall 
out hunting ten or twelve years before. 

Of course she could not for one instant compare 
with a Medd; but she came, for all that, from a 
quite respectable family in the next county, whose 
head had been ennobled a hundred and fifty years 
ago; and she had been chosen after a good deal of 
deliberation for John Medd, then of lieutenant’s 
rank, by his father, old John Austin Medd, who 
himself had left the army soon after the battle of 
Waterloo. Her father, Lord Debenham, had been 
perfectly satisfied with the arrangement — he had 
scarcely, indeed, with his great family of daughters, 
hoped for such an excellent alliance for Beatrice, 
his third; and so young Lady Beatrice had come 


8 


THE COWARD 


with her small income, her nurse, Mrs. Bentham, 
and her quiet beauty, twenty-five years ago, to be- 
gin her education as a mother of Medds. She had 
borne four children, two sons and two daughters, 
of whom three remained alive, two sons and one 
daughter. She had educated them excellently, by 
means of governesses, until the boys went to school ; 
and she had retained her daughter’s last gover- 
ness — a poor relation of her own — as a com- 
panion ever since. She was a lady of an extraor- 
dinarily unobtrusive personality. 

Miss Deverell, in fact, came out as the great lady 
stood there. 

“ Are they not come back yet ? ” she said, and so 
stood, fussing gently, and trying to look in the face 
of the setting sun. 

“ It’s twenty minutes to eight, yet. Ah ! there 
they are.” 

The soft thunder of hoofs, so familiar to her on 
these summer evenings, and so reminiscent of her 
own riding days, made itself audible somewhere 
round to the right from the direction of the long 
glade that ran up into the park ; grew to a crescendo, 
and so, yet louder. A groom, whose waiting figure 
Lady Beatrice had made out two minutes before 
standing at the corner of the shrubbery, darted 
across the drive to be in readiness; and the next 
instant three or four riders came suddenly into 


THE COWARD 


9 


sight, checked at the gravel, and then trotted on, 
vanishing again beneath the terrace at which they 
would dismount. Then, as the heads of two girls 
appeared above the level, again came the soft 
thunder, and two tall boys came at a gallop round 
the corner. The procession was closed by another 
groom running desperately from the stables to be in 
time. 

“ Well, my dears ; you’re late.” 

John Medd, coming up behind, preceded, accord- 
ing to etiquette, by Jimbo, who had duly uttered 
his ceremonial barks, took the question to himself. 

“ Val had a fall,” he said, “ and we couldn’t catch 
Quentin.” 

“ Not hurt at all ? ” she asked, with just a shade 
of anxiety. 

“Who? Val . . . Strained a leg, I think; 

but he’s all right. We must hurry and dress. 
Now then, girls. . . 

And he drove them fussily and kindly before him 
into the house. 

She still stood, waiting for her sons. Miss 
Deverell had hurried in after the girls, adjuring 
them from behind to make haste. 

“Well, Val, had a fall?” asked his mother, 
looking at him as he came, limping a little, across 
the terrace. 

He was a pleasant looking boy, about sixteen; 


10 


THE COWARD 


not handsome in any way, but with the long Medd 
face, with its slightly flattened profile and straight 
hair. He looked rather pale, and his mother no- 
ticed that he limped as he came. He stopped to 
beat off the dust from his knees, as he answered : 

“ Strained myself a bit, mother. It was simply 
ridiculous. Quentin simply bucked me off.” 

“ Well, have a hot bath to-night. I’ll get some 
stuff from Benty . . . Well, Austin? ” 

Her elder son saluted her solemnly. He was a 
couple of years older than his brother; but absurdly 
like him. 

“Yes, mother; Quentin bucked him off. It was 
scandalous. And we couldn’t catch the brute.” 
He had a slightly superior manner about him. 
(Val found it annoying sometimes, and said so.) 
She laughed. 

“ Well, go make haste and dress, my son. It’s 
ten to eight. We’ll hear about it at dinner.” She 
patted him on his shoulder as he went past her. 
She was extraordinarily proud of him, though she 
took great care not to show it. 

She still stood an instant in the sunshine, till she 
heard the horses’ hoofs ring out on the stones of the 
stable yard; then, as the sun finally dipped beyond 
the hill and the grass grew shadowed, she turned 
and went in. 


THE COWARD 


ii 


(m) 

She sat a little apart after dinner, as her manner 
was, in the tall chair by the wide fire-place, gently 
embroidering a piece of applique work in a fashion 
which she believed herself to have invented, and 
looking up tranquilly from time to time. There 
was no need to talk much; the girls were at the 
piano, and her husband dozed unobtrusively op- 
posite her, over a book dealing with Afghanistan 
from a military point of view. 

It is worth while describing the place in which she 
sat, as this hall was, so to speak, the essential frame- 
work of that Medd spirit which she had learned so 
completely to live. 

It was Caroline, not Tudor (as has been said), 
but it was none the worse for that; it was some 
sixty feet long by twenty wide, and the roof rose 
high and stately overhead. Opposite her was the 
gallery, where glimmered gilded orpan-pipes among 
a riot of fat cherubs, resting on the great screen 
that shut off the approach to the dining-room at one 
end and the kitchens on the other. (She caught a 
glimpse of Val once or twice, leaning over the 
gallery, and nodded to him to come down and sit 
by her, but he seemed not to notice. She had 


12 


THE COWARD 


learned well the supreme art of the mother of sons, 
and made no more of it.) The hall itself was pan- 
elled with dark Jacobean oak up some sixteen feet 
of its sides, lit by candles in sconces that projected 
below the cornice; and above, in a dignified row, 
hung the splendid collection of portraits, tilted 
slightly forward — that collection which is one of 
the first things for which the instructed sightseer 
asks. Between these, here and there, hung tattered 
colours; and, higher yet, the trophies of Royalist 
arms once worn by the Medhurst troop of horse at 
Naseby. (Hitherto the General had entirely re- 
fused to allow all these to be lighted by those shaded 
electric lamps just then coming into use.) 

The floor of the hall was furnished extremely 
suitably. Against the walls stood, of course, the 
heavy shining tables and the stiff chairs of state; 
but the couches and the little dark tables and the 
deep leather chairs made the rest of it completely 
habitable. Great bowls of roses stood here and 
there — a delight to smell and sight; there were 
carpets, skins, standing candles, and all the other 
unnoticeable things that make the difference be- 
tween comfort and bleakness. The tall windows 
still stood open to the summer air that breathed in, 
fragrant with the evergreen mignonette that bor- 
dered the narrow beds outside. 

There then she sat, contented and soothed by that 


THE COWARD 


13 


atmosphere to which she herself largely contributed 

— that atmosphere of dignity and comfort and, 

above all, of stately beauty. It had been com- 
pounded year by year, distilled, refined seventy 
times seven; and hung as heavy and as sweet and 
as delicate as that of the old pot-pourri in the great 
china jars on the side-tables. . . . 

Now and again she looked up at the girls. Her 
daughter May was accompanying now, while Gertie 
sang — Gertrude Marjoribanks that is, the friend 
her daughter had made out at Mentone last year. 

The two girls looked charming — real jeunes lilies 

— the one fair, as became a traditional Medd, the 
other startlingly dark, olive-skinned, and black 
eyed. The piano-playing of the second was really 
remarkable too, considering her age, in its extraor- 
dinary delicacy of feeling. It was her single ac- 
complishment or, rather, it was the accomplishment 
into which she put all her energy ; for she did other 
things sufficiently well : she rode, she talked a couple 
of languages besides her own, she sketched a little, 
and she was beginning to act. But her piano-play- 
ing was her real passion; she practised a couple 
of hours a day; she continually hung round the 
piano at odd times. 

“ Gertie,” said the great lady when the last 
rippling chord died on the upper octave, “ Gertie, 
have you ever met Father Maple? ” 


14 


THE COWARD 


“No; who is he?” 

(To see this girl look up suddenly was a real 
pleasure. Her face was still alight with the pathos 
of the music.) 

“ He’s the Roman Catholic priest here. He’s a 
great musician, I believe.” 

The girl got up and came round the piano. 

“ I think May told me about him. He’s quite 
old, isn’t he ? ” 

The other smiled, as she fitted her needle into 
the stuff. 

“ He’s about fifty,” she said. 

Gertie sat down, clasping her knees with her two 
slender hands. She still wore frocks above her 
ankles, and a thick pigtail of hair; but she had no 
trace of the adolescent clumsiness that May oc- 
casionally showed. 

“ Does he play, Lady Beatrice ? ” 

“ Oh ! I think so. But he’s composer too, you 
know. Ecclesiastical music, I expect.” 

Gertie said nothing. Ecclesiastical mus.ic seemed 
to her tiresome. 

“ We’ll ask him to dinner before you go. We’ll 
ask him when Professor Macintosh is here.” 

Lady Beatrice laid her embroidery resolutely 
aside and reached for her stick. 

“Well, my dears, bed. Where are the boys?” 


THE COWARD 


15 

Austin rose from a deep couch in the corner be- 
hind. 

“ Here, mother.’’ 

“ You’ve been asleep, my son.” 

He shook his head. 

“ I’ve been listening to the music.” 

“ And Val? ” 

“ Val went out ten minutes ago.” 

Then the General opened his eyes with a start, and 
rose briskly from his chair as Miss Deverell began 
to clink about the bedroom candlesticks. 

(IV) 

Austin went upstairs with his candle, whistling 
softly ten minutes later. 

He had reached that age when it seemed to him 
proper to go in to the smoking-room and stand 
about for a few minutes while his father settled 
down to his cigar. He was going up to Cambridge 
in October, and until that event it had been de- 
cided that he was not to smoke. But it was neces- 
sary for him to begin to break the ice; and these 
holidays he had begun to visit the smoking-room, 
and, indeed, to keep himself a little ostentatiously 
to soda-water, at the great silver tray on which the 
tantalus and siphons stood. It all served as a kind 
of preface to the next Christmas holidays; when he 


1 6 


THE COWARD 


would drink whisky and smoke cigarettes with his 
father. 

The old nurse peeped through a baize-door at the 
head of the stairs. 

“Well, Benty?” (Somehow everybody greeted 
her in genial fashion. ) 

“ Master Val’s hurt himself,” she said. “ I’m 
going to take him some liniment.” 

Austin laughed. 

“ Take care he doesn’t drink it by mistake. Good 
night, Benty.” 

He kissed her. 

Austin was a nice boy; that must be understood; 
but he was just a little pompous. He had gone 
through his four years at Eton with credit, if not 
with distinction. He had always behaved himself 
well ; he had played cricket for his house for the last 
two years; he had played football for the school 
three or four times ; and during his last year he had 
hunted the beagles. He was so respectable that he 
had been permitted to rise to the dignity of sixth 
form, and for his last two halves to walk into 
chapel in stuck-up collar with his hands at his sides 
and his face deprived of all expression, in that 
stupendously august little procession that enters as 
the bell ceases. Finally, he had been elected to 
“ Pop ” last Easter, and had enjoyed the privilege 
of carrying a knotted cane on certain occasions, 


THE COWARD 


1 7 


sitting on the wall in front of schoolyard during 
vacant hours on Sunday , 1 and of having his um- 
brella tightly rolled up. 

All these distinctions had had their effect on him. 
They had rendered him pompous ; and further, act- 
ing upon a character that was really blameless, they 
had even made him something of a prig. For, not 
only had he Eton on one side to foster self-respect, 
but he had Medhurst on the other, and the knowl- 
edge that he was the eldest son. And these two 
forces acting upon his high standard alternately had 
had their practically inevitable results. The con- 
sequence (that consequence at least which is of im- 
portance for the purpose of the story) was that he 
did not get on very well with Val, who, besides be- 
ing his younger brother at Medhurst, had only 
reached the Upper Division at Eton, and was dis- 
tinguished by no cap other than that of the Lower 
Boats. The brothers would scarcely have been hu- 
man if their relations had been really cordial. 

The two had their rooms here, in the north wing, 
communicating from the passage outside with the 
old nurseries where Mrs. Bentham, once the presid- 
ing deity of them, now reigned in splendour. The 
sitting-room common to them both was at the west- 
ern end, and looked out three ways, — on to the 

1 I note with regret that this privilege has recently been 
abolished by the present Headmaster. 


i8 


THE COWARD 


front, on to the park, and on to the stable shrub- 
bery; and their bedrooms adjoined — Austin’s im- 
mediately, with a communicating door, and Val’s 
next to it, down the passage. The whole floor of 
this wing was practically theirs, as the two other 
rooms in it were spare bedrooms, only used when 
the house was full. 

These three rooms were exactly what might be 
expected. The sitting-room had been their school- 
room a few years ago, where a crushed tutor (who 
had since gained great distinction as a war-cor- 
respondent) had administered to the two boys the 
Latin Principia, Part I, and the works of Mr. Tod- 
hunter, so there still remained in it a big baize- 
clothed table, and three or four standing book- 
shelves, as well as a small hanging cupboard with 
glazed doors where little red-labelled bottles had 
stood, representing “ chemistry.” But Temple 
Grove and Eton had transformed the rest. There 
was a row of caricatures from Vanity Fair upon 
one wall, a yellow-varnished cupboard with little 
drawers full of powdering butterflies and moths, 
with boxes on the top, made of a pithy-looking 
wood, in another corner; another wall was covered 
with photographs of groups by Hills and Saunders, 
with gay caps balanced upon the corners of the 
frames; and finally and most splendid of all, above 


THE COWARD 


19 


the low glass upon the mantelpiece hung now the 
rules of “ Pop ” enclosed in light blue silk ribbon. 
There were also one or two minute silver cups stand- 
ing upon blue velvet, beneath glass domes, record- 
ing the victories of J. A. Medd at fives. The cur- 
tains and furniture were of cheerful chintz; and a 
trophy of fencing-masks and foils filled the space 
between the west windows. These were Austin’s: 
Val had taken up the sport and dropped it again. 
Austin was too good for him altogether. 

As Austin came in carrying his candle, still 
whistling gently, he expected to see Val in a deep 
chair. But there was no Val. He went through 
into his own room, and changed his dress-coat for a 
house-blazer of brilliant pink and white, and came 
out again; but there was still no Val. 

“ Val!” 

There was no answer. 

" Val! ” 

A door opened and Val came in, in shirt and 
trousers. He looked rather sulky, and limped as he 
came in. 

“ What’s up? Why the deuce are you yelling? ” 

Austin sniffed contemptuously. 

“ Lord ! ” he said, “ I don’t want you. I didn’t 
know where you were.” 

“ I’m going to have a bath, if you want to know.” 


20 


THE COWARD 


“ Oh, well, go on and have a bath, then. Jolly 
sociable, isn’t it ? ” 

Val writhed his lips ironically. (This kind of 
thing was fairly common between the two.) 

“If you want to know,” he said bitterly, “ I’ve 
strained myself rather badly. That’s all.” 

“ Strained yourself! Why, good Lord, you only 
came down on your hands and feet, on the grass ! ” 

“ I’ve strained myself rather badly,” explained 
Val with deadly politeness. “ I thought I’d said so. 
And I’m going to have a bath.” 

Austin looked at him with eyelids deliberately 
half-lowered. Then he took up a “ Badminton ” 
volume in silence. 

Val went out of the room and banged the door. 
Then his bedroom door also banged. 

This kind of thing, as has been said, happened 
fairly frequently between these two brothers, and 
neither exactly knew why. Each would have said 
that it was the other’s fault. Austin thought Val 
impertinent and complacent and unsubmissive; and 
Val thought Austin overbearing and pompous. 
There were regular rules in the game, of course, 
and Rule I was that no engagement of arms must 
take place in the presence of anyone else. If rela- 
tions were strained, the worst that was permitted in 
public was a deathly and polite silence. This one 


THE COWARD 


21 


had been worked up ever since Val’s fall this after- 
noon. Austin had jeered delicately, and Val had 
excused himself. As a result, Austin had sat silent 
on a sofa after dinner, and Val had absented him- 
self in the music-gallery, and had gone upstairs 
without wishing anyone good night. There were 
other rules as well. Another was that physical 
force must never under any circumstances be re- 
sorted to; no actual bodily struggle had taken place 
for the last six years, when Austin had attempted 
to apply a newly learned torture to Val, and Val had 
hit Austin as hard as he could on the chin. But 
any other weapon, except lying and complaining to 
the authorities, was permissible; and these included 
insults of almost any kind, though the more poig- 
nant were veiled under a deadly kind of courtesy. 
Such engagements as these would last perhaps a day 
or two ; then a rapprochement was made by the one 
who happened to feel most generous at the mo- 
ment, and peace returned. 

Austin’s thoughts ran on, in spite of “ Bad- 
minton,” for some while in the vein of the quarrel. 
He saw, once more, for the fiftieth time, with ex- 
traordinary clarity of vision, that he had tolerated 
this kind of thing much too long, and that the fact 
was that he was a great deal too condescending to 
this offensive young brother of his. Why, there 


22 


THE COWARD 


were the rules of “ Pop ” hanging before his very 
eyes, to symbolise the enormous gulf that existed 
between himself and Val. Strictly speaking, he 
could cane Val, if he wished to — at least he could 
have caned him last half at Eton. Certainly it 
would not have been proper for him to do so, but 
the right had been there, and Val ought to be made 
to recognise it. Why, the young ass couldn’t even 
ride decently ! He had been kicked off igno- 
miniously, that very afternoon, by Quentin — 
Quentin, the most docile of cobs ! — in the middle 
of a grass field. As for the strain, that was sheer 
nonsense. No one could possibly be strained by 
such a mild fall. It was all just an excuse to cover 
his own incompetence. . . . 


CHAPTER II 


(i) 



’AL was extraordinarily miserable the very in- 


stant he awoke next morning, and he awoke 
very early indeed, to find the room already grey 
with the dawn. 

For the moment he did not know whence this 
misery came; it rushed on him and enveloped him, 
or, as psychologists would say, surged up from his 
subconscious self, almost before he was aware of 
anything else. He lay a minute or two collecting 
data. Then he perceived that the thing must be 
settled at once. He had a great deal to review and 
analyse, and he set about it immediately with that 
pitilessly strenuous and clear logic that offers itself 
at such wakeful hours — that logic that, at such 
times, escapes the control and the criticism of the 
wider reason. 

1 suppose that the storm had been gathering for 
the last year or two — ever since he had been called 
a “ funk ” openly and loudly in the middle of foot- 
ball. Of course he had repelled that accusation 
vehemently, and had, indeed, silenced criticism by 


24 


THE COWARD 


his subsequent almost desperate play. A hint of it, 
however, reappeared a few months later, when, as 
it had appeared to him, he had avoided a fight with 
extreme dignity and self-restraint. And now, once 
again, the problem was presented. 

The emotion of which he had been conscious 
when, after his fall, he had remounted to ride 
home, was one of a furious hatred against Quentin 
— not fear, he had told himself repeatedly during 
the ride and during his silences after dinner, but 
just hatred. He had even cut Quentin viciously 
with his whip once or twice to prove that to him- 
self. It was ignominious to be kicked off Quentin. 
And this hatred had been succeeded by a sense of 
extreme relief as he dismounted at last and limped 
into the house. And then a still small voice had 
haunted him all the evening with the suggestion 
that he was really afraid of riding Quentin again, 
and that he was simulating a strain which was 
quite negligible in order to avoid doing so. 

To the settling of this question, then, he arranged 
his mind. He turned over on to his back, feeling 
with a pang of pleasure that his left thigh was 
really stiff, clasped his hands behind his head, and 
closed his eyes. 

The moment he really faced it, in the clear 
mental light that comes with the dawn, it seemed 
to him simply absurd ever to have suspected his 


THE COWARD 


25 

own courage. Every single reasonable argument 
was against such a conclusion. 

First, he had ridden Quentin for the last three 
years ; he had had fall after fall, one or two of them 
really dangerous. . . . Why, he had actually 

been rolled on by the horse on one occasion when 
they had both come down together! And he had 
never before had the slightest hesitation in riding 
him again. 

“What about that jumping ?” whispered his 
inner monitor. 

The jumping! Why, that had been absurd, he 
snapped back furiously. Austin, mounted on old 
Trumpeter, who had followed the hounds for years, 
had challenged Val, mounted on Quentin, who 
never yet had been known to jump anything higher 
than a sloped hurdle, to follow him over a low 
post and rails. Val, very properly, had refused; 
and Austin, on telling the story at dinner, had 
been rebuked by his father, who said that he ought 
to have known better than to have suggested such 
a thing for Quentin. Yes, said Val to himself 
now; he has been perfectly right. 

“ Was that the reason why you refused ? ” 

Of course it was. He wasn’t going to risk 
Quentin over nonsense like that. 

“ Well then; what about that funking at Eton? ” 

He hadn’t funked. He had been hovering on 


26 


THE COWARD 


the outside in order to get a run down. Besides, 
hadn’t he been applauded later for his pluck? 

<€ Well then; come down to the present. Are 
you going to ride this evening?” 

He would see, said Val. Certainly he wasn’t 
going to ride if his thigh was really strained. (He 
felt it gingerly.) What was the fun of that? 
Certainly he wasn’t going to ride simply to show 
himself that he wasn’t afraid. That would be a 
practical acknowledgment that he was. No, if the 
others rode, and his thigh was all right, and . . . 
and he didn’t want to do anything else, of course 
he would ride just as usual. It was absurd even 
to think of himself as afraid. The fall yesterday 
was nothing at all, he had just been kicked off — 
certainly rather ridiculously — just because he 
wasn’t attending and hadn’t been expecting that 
sudden joyous up-kicking of heels as the horse felt 
the firm turf under him. Why, if he had been 
afraid, he would have shown fear then, wouldn’t 
he? He wouldn’t have mounted again so quickly, 
if there had been the slightest touch of funk about 
the affair. 

“You’re . . . you’re quite sure? ” 

Yes. Perfectly sure. . . . That was decided 
again. He would go to sleep. He unclasped his 
hands and turned over on his side, and instantly 
the voice began da capo. 


THE COWARD 


27 

“ You're . . . you're quite sure you're not 

a funk? " . . . 

As the stable clock struck six he got up in 
despair, threw his legs over the side of the bed, 
entirely forgetful of the strained thigh (though he 
remembered it quickly five minutes later), and 
went to look for “ Badminton ” on riding. He 
remembered it was in the bookshelf on the left of 
the fire-place in the sitting-room. He was going 
to be entirely dispassionate about it, and just do 
what “ Badminton ” advised. That would settle 
once and for all whether he was a funk or not. 
If, under circumstances of a strained thigh and a 
triumphant horse, and . . . and a faint, 

though really negligible feeling of apprehension, 
it said, Ride: he would ride that evening, anyhow, 
whether the others did or not. If not, not. 

As he took down “ Badminton,” after a glance 
round the room that looked simultaneously familiar 
and unfamiliar in this cold morning light, he noticed 
another book on riding, and took that down too; 
and half an hour later, perfectly reassured, he put 
both the books on the table by his bed, and went 
tranquilly to sleep. He had found that even a 
slight strain in ... in the lower part of the 
thigh ought not to be neglected, or serious mischief 
might result. He had dismissed as not in the least 


28 


THE COWARD 


applicable to his case a little discussion on the 
curious fact that a fall, if it takes place slowly 
enough, and if the rider has plenty of time to con- 
sider it, will often produce such nervousness as 
that a really dangerous swift fall fails to effect. 
That was only in a footnote, and of course was 
unimportant. 


(n) 

It was at breakfast-time that the affairs of the 
day were arranged — usually towards the end, as 
by that time the whole party was arrived. 

Very subtle laws seemed to govern the order 
and hour of these arrivals. Lady Beatrice was, 
as is proper, down first, and she could usually be 
observed from upper windows, five minutes before 
the gong sounded, dawdling gracefully on the ter- 
race with her stick. (This was called “ giving 
Jimbo a run,” and usually ended in Jimbo’s entire 
disappearance, by stages, in the direction of the 
stables, each protruding angle of balustrade and 
step and mounting-block having been carefully 
smelled en route.) Then she came indoors and 
made tea in an enormous silver teapot. Five 
minutes later the General came in, in tweeds, carry- 
ing the Westminster Gazette of the night before — 
tall, thin, hook-nosed, and fresh-faced. He kissed 


THE COWARD 


29 


his wife and went to the sideboard, and this morn- 
ing consulted her about a letter he had just opened, 
calling, on his return journey, for his tea. About 
five minutes later the girls appeared, apologising. 
(I forgot to say that Miss Deverell had been 
present throughout. She was always present at 
all engagements punctually, and was always for- 
gotten, except when she suddenly made a small, 
shrewd, and often cynical remark, that made every- 
one wonder why they had not attended to her before. 
She sat on the General’s right hand, in black; and 
he always put her plate back on the sideboard with 
his own, and asked her whether he could give her 
any cold bird.) 

At a quarter to ten Austin came down, silent 
and respectable, and slipped into the company un- 
noticed; he ate swiftly and unhesitatingly, and had 
finished before the others. Finally Val appeared 
between ten minutes and five minutes to ten, also 
silent, but with an air of slight irritability; he 
fumbled about between the dishes, and usually ate 
a good deal in the long run. 

This morning he was later than usual, but he 
limped so noticeably that the General, who had 
glanced up at the clock, which began to strike ten 
at that moment, spared him and said nothing. 
Besides, he had something else to say. 


30 


THE COWARD 


“ And what about plans for to-day?” said his. 
wife. “Why, Val, are you limping?” 

There was a murmur of remarks interrupting 
Val in his careful explanations, and it became plain 
that riding after tea would be arranged. It was 
too hot this morning; this afternoon the girls had 
promised to do something in the village. 

“ Then ” began the General. 

“ I don’t think I’ll ride to-day, mother,” observed 
Val, eating omelette composedly. “ I’ve strained 
myself rather badly.” 

“ Is it bad, Val? ” said his father. 

“ What about a doctor ? ” said his mother. 

“ No, not bad; but it hurts rather. . . . No, 

thanks. There’s no need for a doctor, unless ” 

“Then ” 

But again the General was interrupted. 

“ Doctors say it’s better to ride again at once,” 
put in May. 

“ Thanks very much,” remarked Val, with an 
altogether disproportionate bitterness. “ But I’d 
rather not.” 

The General flapped the table with an open letter. 
He had reached the limits of his patience. 

“ Boys,” he said, “ I’ve got an invitation for you. 
And I think you’d better go. You must get your 
leg well, Val. It’s from the Merediths, and it’s to 
go to Switzerland for a fortnight.” 


THE COWARD 


3 1 


Austin looked up. 

“ When is it for, father? ” 

“ First of September. It’ll just fit in before Val 
goes back to Eton. Eh ? ” 

“ Climbing? ” 

His father nodded. 

“ That’s it. I want you boys to learn. You’ll 
have plenty of time to get your things together.” 

The girls broke out into exclamatory envy. 
May determined to talk to her mother after- 
wards. 

“ I had an uncle who was killed in Switzerland,” 
said Gertie tranquilly. “ He was ” 

“ My dear ! ” put in May. “ Don’t say 
such ” 

“ But I had! He fell two thousand feet.” 

Val was conscious of a curious sense of relief, 
in spite of his reassurances to himself in his bed- 
room. It was scarcely more than a week to the 
first of September; and it was exceedingly likely 
that his strained leg would continue strained. 
Besides, even if it didn’t, it would surely be rash 
to risk straining it again just before going to 
Switzerland. And when he came back there would 
be Eton again. 

Austin was asking for details, in that dispassion- 
ate and uninterested manner which superior young 
gentlemen of eighteen years think proper to assume. 


32 


THE COWARD 


It appeared that the Riffel was the place ; that “ the 
Merediths ” meant father and mother and a son ; 
and that the son, aged twenty-two, was already a 
candidate for the Alpine Club. 

Val listened. It seemed to him all very pleasant, 
and, somehow, appropriate that a new sport should 
present itself just at the moment when riding had 
begun to bore him. He had not an idea about 
climbing beyond what the smoking-room library 
told him; but he was quite confident, of course, 
that he would acquit himself creditably. It oc- 
curred to him as even possible that he might get 
level with Austin, towards whom he did not feel 
very favourably disposed this morning. 

His father got up presently. 

“ You’ll see about boots and clothes,” he said to 
his wife. “ And I’ll write to the Stores about the 
other things.” 

“ What things, father ? Axes and ropes ? ” asked 
Val excitedly. 

“ Well — axes, at any rate.” 

When Austin came upstairs ten minutes later to 
get “ Badminton,” he was, very properly, annoyed 
to find Val already in the best chair, with the book 
on his knee. He searched, a little ostentatiously, 
through the shelves, as if unconscious of this, 
whistling in the manner that Val found peculiarly 


THE COWARD 


33 

annoying’, and proceeded further to turn over all 
the books on the table. 

“Looking for anything ?” asked Val at last, un- 
able to bear it any longer. 

“ Yes, ‘ Badminton.’ . . . Oh ! I see you’ve 

got it.” 

“ Didn’t you see I’d got it as soon as you came 
in?” 

“ Well, when you’ve quite done with it,” said 
Austin in a high voice, ignoring this pointed ques- 
tion, “ perhaps I may have it. It happens to be 
my book.” 

“ It isn’t.” 

“ It is.” 

Val, with an indulgent air, as if humouring a 
child, turned to the first page, while Austin smiled 
bitterly. Val’s face changed. He stood up ab- 
ruptly and tossed the book on to the table. 

“ There’s your book,” he said, with elaborate 
sarcasm. “ I didn’t know it was yours. I beg 
your pardon for using it.” 

“ Oh ! you can keep it till you’ve done,” said 
Austin, his voice higher than ever. “ I only 
wanted ” 

“ I wouldn’t deprive you of it for the world,” 
said Val, his face working with anger. “ I’ll . . . 
I’ll go and sit in the smoking-room. I don’t want 
to disturb you.” 


34 


THE COWARD 


He strode towards the door. 

“ Your leg seems better,” remarked Austin, out- 
wardly still calm. 

Val cast a glance of venom at his brother, and 
faced about. 

“ My dear chap,” he said, “ you’d be howling in 
bed if you were me.” 

Austin simulated a genial and indulgent smile 
with extraordinary success. A sound burst forth 
from Val’s mouth, which must be printed “ Psha! ” 
Then the door closed sharply. 

(m) 

It was really a bad day with Val. Boys of six- 
teen experience them sometimes, especially if their 
nervous centres are rather overstrung, and in such 
a state the faintest touch sets all a- jangle. He was 
so angry that he became completely and finally 
reassured as to his own courage. It seemed to him 
extraordinary that he had ever doubted it, and by 
noon he was almost determined to ride. But he 
saw this would never do, since it was conceded by 
all (as the theologians say), including himself, that 
the single reason for his not riding was his strained 
leg. 

He spent the morning in a completely morbid 
manner, as his habit was at such times. He took a 
crutched stick, since his leg required it, and limped, 


THE COWARD 


35 


even when he was entirely out of sight of the 
windows, out through the garden and into the 
woods. And there he sat down. 

It was one of those breathless August days in 
which summer seems eternal and final. Every 
single, visible, living thing was at full stretch of its 
being. Over his head towered giant beeches, a 
world of greenery, with here and there a tiny patch 
of sky, blue and hot. About him was the bracken, 
every frond and vessel extended to bursting ; beneath 
him the feathery moss. High up, somewhere in 
the motionless towers of leaf, meditated a wood- 
pigeon aloud, interrupting himself (as their manner 
is) as if startled at the beginning of a sentence. 
And the essence and significance of all was in the 
warm summer air — fragrant, translucent, a-sparkle 
with myriad lives, musical with ten thousand flies, 
as if a far-off pedal note began to speak. 

Val had the vivid imagination which goes with 
such natures as his — an imagination that never 
grows weary of rehearsal; and in that realm, lulled 
externally by the perfect balance of life without 
him and within, leaning back at last on the bank as 
on a bed, with his hands clasped behind his head 
as usual, he began to construct the discomfiture 
of his brother. 

His material, so to speak, consisted of two ele- 


THE COWARD 


3 ^ 

ments — Austin’s superiority, and Switzerland. 
He had caught on to the idea of climbing, and, as 
has been said, was convinced (as would be every 
wholesome boy of his age) that he would presently 
excel in this. It would be the one thing, he had 
determined, in which Austin would have to confess 
himself beaten. (He remembered, for his com- 
fort, that Austin had once refused to follow him — 
some six years previously — along the ridged wall 
leading to the stable roof.) 

Very well, then; that was settled. 

Then he began to construct his scenes. 

The earlier ones were almost vindictive. They 
represented Austin, a tiny figure, gazing up at him, 
pallid and apprehensive, as he rose swiftly in the 
air over the lip of an inconceivable precipice; 
Austin, with shaking hands, being pulled up by a 
rope, while he, Valentine, stood, detached and un- 
perturbed, watching him from on high; Austin, 
collapsed and inert with terror, while he himself 
straddled, a second Napoleon, gazing out for suc- 
cour from an inaccessible ledge. The final scene 
of the series was staged in the hotel dining-room, 
whose occupants rose to their feet and cheered as 
he, Valentine, with a stern, set face, strode in, with 
his paraphernalia jingling about him, after the con- 
quest of a hitherto unclimbed peak. 

He grew generous at last as he contemplated 


THE COWARD 


37 


his future. Austin was no longer to collapse, 
but simply to remain mediocre, while bearded men, 
browned with sun and exposure, discussed the 
brilliant younger brother who had swept all before 
him. There was a final scene, which for an instant 
brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat, 
in which an explanation took place between the 
two: Austin, reverent and humble at last, was to 
grasp his hand and say that he had never under- 
stood or appreciated him; while he, magnanimous 
and conciliatory, was to remind the other that in 
lawn tennis, riding, and fencing — all manly sports 
— Austin was unquestionably the superior. 
(Gertie Marjoribanks, he settled parenthetically, 
was to be present at this interview.) 

Indeed Val was not a fool. He had a nervous 
system, it must be remembered, and an imagina- 
tion; and he was nearly seventeen years old. 

(IV) 

He was silent at lunch ; but no longer with irrita- 
tion. It was rather a pregnant and a genial silence, 
warmed and perfumed by his imaginings. For to 
those who live largely in the imagination — who 
create rather than receive — reassurance, as well 
as apprehensiveness and depression, is always at 
their command. He had reconstructed his world 


38 


THE COWARD 


now, by his earnest endeavours of the morning, 
and looked even upon Austin with benignity. 

His geniality flowed out into words as he limped 
into the smoking-room afterwards and found 
Austin knocking the balls about. 

“ I’ll play you fifty up,” he said. 

Austin nodded. 

By the end of the game, which, although Austin 
won it by a final undeniable fluke, stood at “ forty- 
eight all” before the balls, wandering about, hap- 
pened to cannon, the two were talking freely again ; 
and it was Switzerland of which they talked. 

“ Do tell me when you’ve done with ‘ Bad- 
minton/ ” said Val. “ By the way, I’m beastly 
sorry about this morning. I really didn’t know it 
was yours, or I’d have asked you.” 

“That’s all right,” murmured Austin, touched 
in spite of his dignity. “ You can have it all to- 
day.” Val took his stick, helped himself to a 
leather couch, and curled upon it. 

“ Thanks awfully. I really do want to get an 
idea of the thing. Tom Meredith’s a regular pro., 
I believe. ... I say, do you think we shall 
do the Matterhorn ? ” 

“ Matterhorn ! Good Lord, no. Why ” 

“ I don’t see why we shouldn’t. Why, even 
ladies do it.” 


THE COWARD 


39 


There was a pause, while Austin made a careful 
stroke with the balls, and missed. He put his 
cue up. 

“ I’m going up. I’ll bring the book down if you 
like, if you’re lame.” 

“ Right. Thanks awfully.” 

Tea was under the cedar in the eastern gardens, 
and about ten minutes past five there was still no 
Val. Austin shouted once or twice under the 
windows; and at last the other appeared, reading 
as he came, and carrying his crutched stick under 
his arm. He remembered, however, to use it com- 
ing down the steps from the house. 

Conversation was extremely genial. Val now 
joined in it, now sat silent and smiling, with bright 
eyes. His imagination had been vividly inspired 
by his three hours’ reading; and he talked already 
familiarly of aretes and chimneys and couloirs. May 
joined in enviously, with loud sighs; she had had 
her conversation, and it had proved unsatisfactory ; 
the utmost she could get out of her mother was that 
if the Marjoribanks asked her for next year, and 
if there was nothing else particular to do, and if it 
was thought suitable when the time came — well, 
then perhaps she would be allowed to go. Mean- 
while she was to remember that it was only natural 
that boys could do things that girls couldn’t. 


40 


THE COWARD 


Val stood, a little ostentatiously leaning on his 
stick, with a smiling melancholy to see the riders 
start. He even laid his stick aside to mount Gertie, 
who was riding Quentin to-day by her own special 
request. Then he observed the usual caper ings of 
the horses as they set their feet on the springy 
grass on the other side of the drive, and presently 
saw them vanish one by one over the near sky-line, 
in a cloud of flying turfs. He noticed how ex- 
tremely well Gertie sat the cob. 

Then he went back again to “ Badminton/' 


CHAPTER III 


(i) 

nPHE dinner-party of which Lady Beatrice had 
spoken took place the night before the boys 
went abroad — if that can be called a dinner-party 
at which there are but two guests; and when Val 
came down, still rather out of breath with the 
desperation with which he had dressed, he found 
the two being entertained by the girls, while Austin 
looked picturesque on the hearth-rug. He said the 
proper things and retired to a window-seat. 

Of the two there was no choice as to which 
was the most impassive. He had met Professor 
Macintosh once or twice before (the Professor was 
a college friend of his father’s, he knew), but his 
appearance never failed to strike awe into the 
beholder. 

For, first of all, he was a tall man, much bent, 
who grew his white hair and beard very long, and 
wore spectacles; and secondly, his costume marked 
him out evidently as a genius of the highest rank. 
(It was supposed, by Professor Macintosh’s ad- 
mirers, that he was unaware of any startling 
4i 


42 


THE COWARD 


difference between his dress and that of others, or, 
at the very least, was unaware that evening dress 
was usually governed by any code but that of 
individual taste.) He wore a brown velvet jacket 
and waistcoat, loose black trousers, and, most 
supreme of all, a crimson skull-cap not unlike those 
of the Renaissance Popes. His waistcoat was, of 
course, only slit down the front, disclosing a 
hemmed shirt held together by three pearl buttons. 
He wore square-toed, blacked boots upon his feet. 

It was a tradition in the Medd family that the 
'Professor was a man of gigantic knowledge. He 
did not actually occupy a Chair in any known 
University of the British Isles; but he had once, 
many years before, been an assistant lecturer at 
Owen’s College, Manchester. There his startling 
views and his unorthodoxy had, it was understood, 
aroused the jealousy of the scientific world gener- 
ally; and it had been left for Chicago to honour a 
man of whom his own country was not worthy. As 
regards the particular line in which he was eminent, 
General Medd could certainly have been evasive, if 
he had been questioned exactly on the point. The 
General was himself a man who laid no claim at 
all to learning, but he had always understood that 
“ Science ” was the Professor’s subject. Further 
than that he could not penetrate. It is uncertain 
whence he had learned even these particulars; but 


THE COWARD 


43 


the Professor’s critics did not hesitate to assert 
that the only serious advocate of Professor Macin- 
tosh’s claim to eminence was Professor Macintosh. 
All this, however, was to the General’s mind only 
one more proof of his friend’s greatness, since none 
but a great man could be such a storm-centre in the 
scientific world, or the occasion of such extraordi- 
nary bitterness. The Professor lived in Hendon, 
in a small villa, with his wife, and was believed to 
pass the greater part of his life in the reading- 
rooms of the British Museum. He had issued two 
or three pamphlets, printed without a publisher’s 
name; and was understood to be engaged upon a 
gigantic work which was to be the monument of 
his misunderstood life — subject unspecified. 

Val, in the window-seat, therefore, looked upon 
him with a proper awe. 

The second guest, to whom he gave scarcely a 
glance, was Father Maple — a smallish man, also 
grey-haired, with a palish face and bright grey 
eyes. He was disappointing, thought Val to him- 
self, for he was dressed like an ordinary clergyman 
in long frock-coat and trousers. He had expected 
something more sensational. The priest at this 
instant was turning over the books on the table. 

“ So you boys are off to Switzerland to-morrow, 
I hear,” said the Professor in his hearty voice. 


44 


THE COWARD 


(Val was not quite old enough to know why he 
disliked this heartiness, or even the fact that he 
did so.) 

Austin said that that was so. They were to 
catch the seven-fifteen, which would take them 
up to town in time for the eleven o’clock train from 
Victoria. 

“ Ah, ha,” mused the Professor, “ my climbing 
days were over ten years ago. . . . Dear old 

Tyndall! Many’s the walk and talk I’ve had with 
him.” 

“ Professor Tyndall?” asked May, who was a 
confirmed worshipper at the shrine, and would as 
soon have doubted the existence of God as the 
eminence of Dr. Macintosh. 

“ Yes, my dear. . . . Dear old Tyndall. I 

remember on the Aletsch glacier once ” 

Then Lady Beatrice rustled in, apologetic but 
perfectly dignified, followed by her husband. It 
appeared that her maid was responsible. 

Val for the last fortnight had, so to speak, eaten, 
drunk, tasted, and smelt Switzerland and Switzer- 
land only. The thing had seized on his imagina- 
tion, as such things will at such an age; and even 
Austin had been inspired. So it seemed to him 
an extraordinary opportunity that the Professor 
had come to stay at such a moment, and by the 


THE COWARD 


45 


time that the fish was removed, under the fire of 
the boys’ enthusiasm, the subject had taken pos- 
session of the table and the Professor of the subject. 

This was rather his way. It was said amongst 
his friends that he was a conversationalist, and 
that is always a fatal incentive to prolonged solilo- 
quy. It was his habit therefore, positively forced 
on him by such a reputation and by the hushed 
silence that fell among his admirers, to use such so- 
cial occasions as these to deliver a discourse on 
whatever subject had come up. (His friends used 
to say to one another, after such an evening, that 
“the Professor had been in great form.”) 

The impression diffused this evening was that the 
little band of scientists who for so long were asso- 
ciated with the Alps had by now positively been 
reduced to the Professor himself. Tyndall was 
gone, Huxley was gone, Hardy was gone; Macin- 
tosh only remained. He did not actually say this 
outright, but it was impossible to draw any other 
conclusion, and he was regarded with an ever 
deeper and more affectionate awe as the minutes 
passed by this extremely simple country-house 
party. A second impression made upon the com- 
pany was to the effect that, in his younger days, 
there was scarcely an expedition of note with which 
he had not been closely connected. It appeared 
that he had been among the first to meet the dimin- 


4 6 


THE COWARD 


ished party that returned from the first ascent of 
the Matterhorn; that he had watched Hardy’s con- 
quest of the Finsteraarhorn through a telescope; 
and that there was not a peak or pass of any no- 
toriety which he had not himself, at some time or 
another, ascended. Again, he did not say these 
things. . . . 

He grew very eloquent at the end of his soliloquy, 
which was delivered in the form of a paternal lec- 
ture to the boys on the subject of a mountaineer’s 
mental and moral equipment. 

“ You can take it from me, boys,” he said im- 
pressively, “ that it’s nothing but foolhardiness to 
climb unless you’ve got the head and the nerves for 
it. There’s nothing to be proud of in possessing 
them; there’s nothing to be ashamed of in being 
without them. For myself, I’m as happy on an arete 
as on the king’s highway; but that’s neither here 
nor there. And if you’ll take my advice, if you 
find that you haven’t the head for it, why, be cou- 
rageous and don’t attempt to climb. It needs more 
courage to refuse to climb than to be foolhardy. 
Remember that.” 

He paused to put a spoonful of vanilla ice into 
his mouth; and the priest, who had been listening 
attentively with downcast eyes, looked up. 

“ You think, then, that the nerve for climbing 
can’t be gained by effort, Professor? ” 


THE COWARD 


47 


“ Certainly not, Father, certainly not. It’s a 
purely physical matter. I remember myself having 
to blindfold a young officer — it was on the Jung- 
fraujoch, I remember — and to lead him by the 
hand before he could move. And I’m not talking 
of mere physical giddiness: I mean that nerve, as 
it's called, which many folks seem to think is a 
moral matter, is nothing of the sort. It’s as physi- 
cal as anything else. I should no more blame a 
man for . . . for funking a bad descent than 

I should blame him for falling over a precipice if I 
pushed him over.” 

“ Do you hold that all the so-called virtues — I 
know no other word to use, I am afraid — are 
merely the result of physical conditions? ” 

A large, kindly smile beamed out on the Profes- 
sor’s face. 

“ Ah, ha, Father, we’re touching on delicate 
ground there.” (He glanced round at the faces of 
the young persons who were watching him. ) “ I’m 

a shocking materialist, you know — a shocking ma- 
terialist.” 

He finished his ice in silence, with an air of ex- 
traordinary discretion. 

“ And what do you think about it all — er — Mr. 
Maple,” said the General after a moment. (He 
was a humble and rather stupid man, and thought 
all these questions very important and very con- 


48 


THE COWARD 


fusing. He was also intensely full of his tradi- 
tional contempt for a Papist, but veiled it admir- 
ably under courteous attentions. ) “ A cur’s a cur, 

it seems to me.” (He stroked his grey moustache.) 

The priest, who had dropped his eyes, looked up 
again, smiling. 

“ I entirely disagree with the Professor, I am 
afraid,” he said. “ I hold that a man is what his 
will is; or, rather, that he will become so; and that 
qualities like nerve and fortitude can certainly be 
acquired.” 

Val fidgeted suddenly. It seemed to him an 
extraordinarily tiresome conversation. 

“ Do tell us more about step-cutting,” he said 
shyly to the Professor. 

(n) 

The last evening before a day on which something 
pleasurable and exciting is going to happen has 
always a peculiarly stimulating effect upon imagina- 
tive persons, and the two boys were in a state very 
nearly approaching exaltation as they came out into 
the hall after dinner, 

Val vanished immediately, to take one more look 
at the delightful luggage that already lay nearly 
packed, in the joint sitting-room upstairs. He went 
up three steps at a time, tore along the passages, and 


THE COWARD 


49 


then stood, eyeing it all once more: the sheaf of 
axes, each with its little leather head-dress, umbrel- 
las and sticks; the two portmanteaux, still open to 
receive last touches and additions in the morning; 
the roll of rugs, in the midst of which (as he knew) 
reposed the coil of rope with its red-thread centre. 
It seemed to him amazing that the eve of the jour- 
ney was really come. . . . 

He came down more slowly, once, indeed, turn- 
ing back to reassure himself that his boots were 
really packed — those boots which, heavy now with 
the mutton- fat he had reverently administered to 
them with his own hands after tea, he had worn, in 
accordance with the directions of “ Badminton,” 
already for two or three days. As he came to- 
wards the hall he heard the piano. This was a 
nuisance; he would not be able to talk to the Pro- 
fessor about couloirs ; but at least he could think in 
peace, so he slipped in noiselessly, tiptoed down the 
length of the hall, and sat down on the couch be- 
hind his mother’s chair. 

In times of exaltation, external things take upon 
them a value out of all proportion to their intrinsic 
weight ; and perfectly ordinary and familiar things 
appear in a wholly new light. And so it came 
about that Val, looking upon a scene which he could 
remember so long as he could remember anything, 


50 


THE COWARD 


discovered in one or two trifling modifications of it 
a significance that really bore no relation at all to 
their essence. 

It was the priest who was playing — a man of 
whom a certain profane musician had said twenty 
years before that the Church had only gained a 
sacrament-monger while the world had lost an 
artist; and though Val knew nothing at all of music, 
it was impossible that he should not be enormously 
affected, all circumstances considered, by the at- 
mosphere generated by the really exquisite perform- 
ance. For a time he watched the player’s face, thin, 
quiet, and intent, with the candlelight falling on it 
and turning to pure silver the grey hairs about his 
ears and temples, and thought only of rock-climb- 
ing. It crossed his mind with a kind of marvel 
that any man should be as contented, as this priest 
obviously looked, who was not going to Switzer- 
land next day. And meanwhile the music did its 
work. 

Val knew neither then nor afterwards what music 
it was that was being played. One phrase in it, 
however — a motif , if he had only known it — be- 
gan little by little to colour his thoughts. He began 
almost to look for it, as it insisted upon itself gently 
from time to time, like a wise friend intervening 
with infinite tact. It was simple and clear now, 
as if speaking alone; it inserted itself a moment 


THE COWARD 


5i 


or two later across a tangle of controversy; it 
shouted suddenly across a raging sea; then once 
again it spoke gently. . . . 

So the music began to do its work. 

Val scarcely knew afterwards at what instant he 
first noticed Gertie Marjoribanks from the new 
angle. They were all very still. His mother’s 
feather fan lay on her knee; he could see the 
jewelled fingers, perfectly motionless, clasping it. 
His father sat opposite, one long leg cocked over 
the other, one long foot outstretched in the air, with 
a shoe dangling from its toe ; his hands were clasped 
behind his head, and his face was grave and still. 
Austin was in the shadow of a window-seat, all 
but invisible. Miss Deverell was beyond him again, 
seated beneath a lamp ; but her work was lying un- 
heeded in her lap as she leaned back and listened. 
. . . Above and about them all was the darken- 

ing beauty of this great old room. 

And presently Val perceived that he was staring 
at Gertie Marjoribanks as if he had never seen her 
before. 

This girl was sitting with her profile towards him, 
rather forward on her chair, in a pose that seemed 
to the boy one of the most beautiful things he had 
ever seen. (Naturally he would not have called it 
this.) She sat fonvard in her chair, with her slen- 
der white hands clasped round her knee, her face, 


52 


THE COWARD 


shadowed in her dark hair, thrown forward and 
up, with her lips slightly parted, and her breath 
coming evenly between them. But it was that, so 
far as he could see it, which he saw on her face 
that gave such an amazing sense of beauty to the 
boy as he looked at her — an expression of abso- 
lutely real, rapturous attention, as if the sweetness 
and delicacy of the music had entered into her very 
life and transformed her altogether. These initia- 
tions are mysterious things, and it was Val’s first 
experience of them. Only, he was aware that 
something had happened which somehow altered the 
relations of everything. He went on looking at 
this slender dark-haired girl, a year younger than 
himself, in her white frock; at her round arms 
clasped about her knee — this girl who, to do her 
justice, had lost during these minutes every ounce 
of that self-consciousness which girls can rarely 
evade; and who was actually, as she seemed to be, 
for the time being entirely absorbed in the aston- 
ishing sweetness of sound that was filling the 
room. . . . He looked carefully and minutely 

at her, at her face, again and again, at her hands, 
her arms, her feet, her thick hair ; and suddenly and 
vividly a perfectly perceptible pang shot through 
him at the memory that the brougham was ordered 
for his departure at half-past six next morning. 


THE COWARD 53 

As he turned a little restlessly in his seat, the 
music ended. 


(m) 

The cruellest nickname ever given to a really 
beautiful thing is that of calf-love. Certainly ;t has 
its clumsinesses and its crudenesses, but these result 
simply from the fact that the instruments of expres- 
sion are not adequate. A boy in his first falling in 
love is of course awkward and spasmodic externally, 
and mentally he is usually sentimental and fatuous ; 
but these defects no more detract from the amazing 
simplicity and gallantry and purity of the passion 
itself, than a creaky harmonium affects the beauty of 
a sonata played upon it. 

Val’s first clumsy moment fell at the handing out 
of bedroom candles that same night. 

The priest had received the thanks of everybody 
(the Professor, indeed, had been kind enough to say 
that himself in his own musical days had never 
heard the piece played better), and had been ulti- 
mately seen as far as the porch by the General and 
as far as the terrace steps by Austin. Then, after a 
little talk, a move had been made towards the table 
under the gallery where the silver candlesticks stood. 

This was Val’s moment. He had rehearsed it to 


54 


THE COWARD 


himself while the priest had played for the second 
time; and he was there with a promptitude that 
made his mother smile at him approvingly. (Lady 
Beatrice had had a lot of difficulty about such mat- 
ters with her younger son.) 

Gertie came second in the queue for candles, and 
he had already set aside one for her with a glass 
that did not rattle. Then he gave it her before 
lighting it, that he might have the pleasure of hold- 
ing it on one side while she held it on the other. 
Then he applied the taper to the wick, and simul- 
taneously his fingers touched hers. The shock was 
so great that he dropped his side abruptly, and the 
entire candlestick, fortunately without the glass, fell 
crashing to the floor. Then, as he groped for it, he 
laid hold of her shoe by mistake, which was his 
second shock. 

“ My dear Val,” said his mother. 

“ Very sorry, mother/' 

He stood up, and, to his horror, became aware 
that he was turning scarlet in the face. 

“ You’ve forgotten the glass, my boy,” said his 
father behind. 

This was remedied. And then Val fired off the 
sentence he had rehearsed, all in a breath. 

“ Good night, Miss Gertie, and good-bye. Shan’t 
see you in the morning unless you’re up by half- 
past six.” He knew it was hopeless, but he had 


THE COWARD 


55 


determined to say it. It would be exquisite to say 
good-bye to her again in the summer morning. It 
seemed to him an exceedingly daring suggestion to 
make. 

“Half-past six! Why, good gracious, my dear 
boy ■” began May explosively. 

“ Well, good-bye, Miss Gertie/’ said Val again. 
And for one vibrating instant their eyes met. 

(IV) 

The conflict of emotions was indescribable that 
night; for a boy, in the exaltation of a falling in 
love, will pose and attitudinise interiorly in a man- 
ner almost inconceivable to a maturer mind. He 
will, that is to say, group himself and his beloved, 
rehearse conversations, enact dramas — all in a 
scenery which the imagination contrives out of the 
material at its disposal — with a vividness and a 
dramatic power wholly unattainable by him in less 
emotional moods. Curiously enough, too, these 
dramas usually end in tragedy so moving and so 
poignant as to bring tears to the creator’s eyes ; and 
Val was no exception. More than once that night, 
before he fell asleep, he was on the point of an 
actual sob, as he lingered over some exquisite part- 
ing scene between himself and Gertie — or over 
some meeting, years hence, between himself as a 
homeless, stern- faced wanderer and her as a rich 


56 


THE COWARD 


and important personage. These, however, came 
later, when the simpler situations had been ex- 
hausted — when he had perished of cold in the high 
Alps, after having covered her with his coat and 
waistcoat ; when he had toiled homewards, bearing 
her inanimate form on his shoulders, himself to fall 
dead as the applauding crowds gathered round in 
the moonlight. . . . 

He awoke with a start, to find the man in his 
room and the daylight streaming in. 

“ It’s half-past five, Master Val; and Mr. Austin’s 
in the bathroom,” said fresh-faced Charles, who 
waited on the boys. 

He still lay a minute or two re-sorting his emo- 
tions. 

There had been something almost dramatic and 
appealing, last night, in the thought of his departure 
this morning (while she still lay sleeping in her 
beauty) to face the perils of the high Alps; but the 
drama seemed gone now, and dreariness to have 
taken its place. It suddenly seemed to him that it 
was by a peculiarly malevolent stroke of Providence 
that he had made the discovery that she was so 
lovable, only last night. Why, what a blind ass he 
had been not to have seen it before! What might 
not those past three weeks have been . . . 

those long afternoons, those rides? And he had 
let Austin open gates, and May walk with her in 


THE COWARD 


57 

the woods. . . . And he had actually not rid- 

den at all, for this last fortnight. 

Then, with a pang, he remembered again the 
catastrophe of last night — the dropped candlestick, 
the clumsy gestures. . . . 

It was a stern and moody Val who strode down to 
the early breakfast, who went into his mother’s 
room as requested, on the way down, to wish her 
good-bye, who made rather more noise than he need 
on going past the door of the beloved. At the cor- 
ner of the passage he even turned for one instant 
to watch that door. What if it were to open, and 
a sleep-flushed face look out! . . . 

“ You must buck up,” said Austin, with his mouth 
full of kidney. “ Brougham’ll be round in ten min- 
utes.” 

Val said nothing. He inspected the cold ham 
with the frown of a truculent despot. What did he 
want with ham ? 

He was, however, interiorly, slowly arranging the 
situation; and he saw himself now, once again, as 
a romantic lover whom severe duty called away to 
face dangers unspeakable. He was to go out and 
conquer; he was to return a fortnight hence, brown 
and determined and infinitely modest, to . . . 

to find her, no doubt, detained by some unforeseen 
accident, and still in his home. And if not? Well, 


THE COWARD 


58 

if not, she should see the newspapers, that by that 
time would have some startling news from Switzer- 
land. 

“ There are the wheels,” said Austin. “ Got your 
things down ? ” 

“I suppose so,” said Val. “Charles said ” 

“ Good Lord ! don’t trust to Charles.” 

“ Better see after your own, hadn’t you ? ” said 
Val offensively. 

Well, the impossible happened. 

He stood in his tweed suit, bare-headed, on the 
steps by the carriage, in something of an attitude, 
it must be confessed; while Austin, practical and 
efficient, as always, counted the pieces of luggage 
which Charles was setting on the top of the brough- 
am. Val’s left leg was advanced a little; his right 
hand was on his hip, grasping his hat ; his left hand 
held a walking-stick. He was aware that the morn- 
ing sunlight fell on him from over the shrubbery 
by the house, and that he stood, with a faint re- 
semblance to a youthful Napoleon, exactly at that 
point where his figure showed to the best advantage. 
It was at this moment that the immense poignancy 
of his situation struck him again with renewed 
force. She was sleeping; he was taking his last 
look — and all the rest — before setting out to meet 


THE COWARD 


59 

in a hand-to-hand struggle the elemental forces of 
nature. 

He turned then for one last look at the sleeping 
house, carrying his eye slowly along the front, from 
the north wing where his own room was to the 
south wing where the girls slept. And as his eyes 
rested there the impossible happened — that which 
was now his last hope. The curtain drew back and 
dropped again; but not before he had time to see, 
as in a flash, a face crowned with dark hair tumbling 
about the shoulders and a glimmer of white. . . . 

“ When you’ve done looking like a stuck pig,” 
said Austin with peculiar vehemence from within 
the brougham (it must be remembered that he had 
had to do all the overseeing), “ perhaps you’ll get in 
and let us go. We’re ten minutes late already.” 

The brothers did not speak after that until they 
reached the station. 


CHAPTER IV 


(i) 

4CTJY George, you chaps!” said Tom Meredith, 
“ but this is hot.” 

He sat down hastily above the angle of the path 
and wiped his face hard all over. 

It was almost impossible to believe that forty- 
eight hours ago, at this very time, they had been 
struggling in the luggage-room of Victoria Station, 
between charging porters and half-hysterical women 
and furious vindictive-looking men in tweeds, all at 
other times civilised beings, but in the midst of this 
anxiety once more barbarous individualists. And 
now the three young men were on their way up 
from Zermatt to the Riffel. The elders were some- 
where behind, on mules. 

They had come out with as much speed as these 
days permitted. All the previous afternoon they 
had wound through the Rhone valley, passing hot 
little stations with green-shuttered official residences 
abutting on to the platform, looking up almost con- 
tinually from the sweltering valley to the great 
60 


THE COWARD 


61 


hummocky hills on this side and that — hills that, in 
their turn, aspired here and there to vast crags of 
brown and black, and even to spires and towers, 
beyond which, now and again, looked down the 
serene snows, dazzling bright against the intense 
blue. Then, by haste, they had arrived at Zermatt 
the same evening. 

Tom Meredith was the kind of young man with 
whom boys inevitably make friends almost imme- 
diately. In physical build he was impressive; in 
his short, jerky sentences he was even more impres- 
sive, for his speech was full of allusiveness and 
vivid detail, singularly unlike the periods of Pro- 
fessor Macintosh, who had held forth three days 
ago on the same subject. In appearance he was a 
lean, well made young man, hard and strenuous, 
thin-faced, with projecting cheek-bones, and ex- 
tremely keen blue eyes beneath rather prominent 
brows. He was the proper colour, too, for a young 
man of his age and vocation, browned even with the 
suns of England; his hands were nervous and 
sinewy. 

His outlook on life too was just now extraordi- 
narily inspiring. Val had learned, by merciless 
questioning, that he had played football for Rugby 
for two years before he left and during one year for 
Oxford. But what impressed him prodigiously 


62 


THE COWARD 


was Tom’s entire detachment from mere games. 
Obviously these things were, for Tom, just a recrea- 
tion for boys; the real thing was climbing, for in 
climbing you were facing natural facts and not ar- 
tificial situations. It stood, towards games, in the 
relation in which fencing stands to fighting. 

On climbing, then, Tom was inexhaustible. In 
periods between conversations in the train he had 
indeed looked out with unconscious contempt now 
and again at wayside stations ; he had emerged from 
silence to point out a stationmaster who was un- 
usually fat; he had said that he believed that Sion 
had a cathedral ; but he had detected the Weisshorn, 
and indicated it with a lean finger, when there was 
no more to be seen of it but a flash of white, seen 
between two hills and gone again. And all the rest 
of the time, till his mother fell asleep, he had dis- 
coursed almost endlessly on technical points. Val 
had even come into his bedroom late last night to 
hear some more, and Tom had sat up in bed to grat- 
ify him. 

Well, even Val was too hot and breathless to ask 
anything more just now (they had come for fifty 
minutes without a break), and he too sat down and 
took out his handkerchief. Austin was already 
breathing rather emphatically, though even then 
with a certain reserve of self-respect, in the shade of 
a rock. 


THE COWARD 


63 


The view at which Val presently began to look 
is, most certainly, one of the finest in the world. 
They were just emerging out of the pines on to 
the first slopes of the vast plateau on the top of 
which stands the Riffelalp hotel. Beneath them lay 
the valley from which they had come, sloping 
abruptly down from the trees over which they 
looked down to Zermatt itself, a village of toy- 
houses, far away to the right. Then on the other 
side rose up the great bastions of rock and pine and 
scree, stripping themselves as they rose higher, up 
into the giant fortifications that protect the moun- 
tains proper — first the spires and pinnacles of the 
lower peaks, purple-shadowed here and there, lined 
with delicate white; and then the enormous solem- 
nities of the eternal snows. Over all lay the sky, 
brilliantly blue, seeming to scorch the eyes with 
its intensity; while the grave murmur of the fly- 
haunted woods beneath, the ponderous far-off roar 
of the streams, did little else but emphasise to the 
subconscious attention the huge scale of the silence 
and the space and the vastness in which all expressed 
itself. 

“ By gad! ” said Val presently. 

Tom waved a hand. 

“ Ah ! but that’s the chap ! ” he said. 

Val nodded. 

For, hugely greater in its isolation than all else, 


64 


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standing clear out, built as it seemed, as on a 
foundation, on the high line of which other peaks 
looked but a continuation, towered, out to the left, 
against the high sky, that enormous abrupt wedge 
of rock, so steep that the snow lies on it but in 
patches and drifts and lines — that wedge of rock 
known as the Matterhorn — a monster who has, all 
to himself, a little cemetery outside Zermatt where 
lie, as if ennobled by their fate, the “ victims of 
Mont Cervin.” 

“ And we’re going to do him before we leave? ” 

Tom nodded. “ We’ll have a try,” he said. And 
Val continued to stare. 

Already even this peak bore to his mind a certain 
air of personality. For first he had read all about 
it ; he had followed, almost breathlessly, Mr. Whym- 
per’s adventures on it, and had formed an opinion 
on the famous question as to whether the rope, 
whose parting had cost four lives, were snapped or 
deliberately cut; next he had heard Tom discourse 
upon the peak; and thirdly he now saw for himself 
what a self-sufficient giant it was, broad-based as 
if on great claws, with that famous sharp head, 
tilted ever so little as if to see who were the next 
adventurers who were going to attack. It was upon 
the Matterhorn, then, that his heart was chiefly set ; 
it stood for him as a symbol of all he meant to do 
in life generally. 


THE COWARD 65 

“ They say there are a lot of chains on it now/’ 
he suddenly said. 

“ That’s nonsense ! ” said Tom. “ They’re fused 
by lightning within a year or two. Besides, the 
climbing’s just as difficult. Besides, you needn’t 
use them.” 

“ And we start on the Riffelhorn to-morrow? ” 

“ This afternoon, if you’re game.” 

“ Tell us about it.” 

“ Well, we must be getting on. I’ll tell you as 
we go. . . . Look ; isn’t that them ? ” 

He stood up, pointing down the slopes ; and there, 
tiny as mechanical toys, there moved out of the 
shadow of the trees, five hundred feet below, the 
small and solemn procession of mules and porters 
with which the Meredith parents were ascending. 
Mr. Meredith had been perfectly explicit this morn- 
ing. He would walk, he said, where it was abso- 
lutely impossible to be conveyed, provided it was 
reasonably flat going, and not too far. The boys 
might kill themselves as soon as they liked; but 
they must not ask him to accompany them. 

“ Yes; let’s get on,” said Val, getting to his feet 
once more. 

It appeared that the Riffelhorn had been designed 
by an indulgent Providence as a kind of gymnasium 
for rock-climbers. It was a small peak of rock. 


66 


THE COWARD 


jutting out from the Gorner Grat over the Gorner 
glacier; it possessed precipices quite deep enough 
to test the head (that on the glacier was a good 
thousand feet) ; it was constructed of excellent rock; 
and, best of all, there were no fewer than six ways to 
the top, namely, the ordinary way, the “ sky-line,” 
the ascent from the glacier, the ascent from the 
Gorner side, with two more on the side facing the 
Matterhorn — these latter both short, but exceeding 
steep. The ascent known as the Matterhorn chim- 
ney contained but two footholds in forty feet. 

“ Then how do you get up it? ” panted Val; for 
they were swinging on again at a good pace. 

“ Shoulders and knees,” said Tom tersely, “ right 
across the chimney.” 

“ Have you done it ? ” 

“ Lord, yes.” 

“ And if you fall? ” 

“ Oh ! you’d go on to the glacier, I should think. 
But of course you have a rope.” 

(ii) 

A Riffelalp table d'hote presents as remarkable 
contrasts as any table d'hote in the world, since it 
comprises specimens of the most active and the most 
passive types of the human race. There are large, 
stately ladies there, suspiciously bright-eyed, in silk 
petticoats, with their lace- fringed parasols leaning in 


THE COWARD 


67 


the corner; and there are lean, sun-dried athletes, 
who have ascended Monte Rosa yesterday and pro- 
pose to start for the Weisshorn to-morrow. The 
complexions of the former are often perfectly pre- 
served, since they have come up here in a litter, and 
have done no more than stroll for a quarter of a mile 
along the level path leading towards the Findelen 
glacier; the complexions of the latter are usually 
non-existent : at the best they are of a rich dry-leaf 
tint, at the worst they are olive, with a pink, peeled 
nose and puckered eyes set in the midst. 

It was at the end of one of the two long tables, 
furnished with guests of these varieties, that the 
party of five sat down at about a quarter-past twelve. 
The parents had taken it easily, and appeared now, 
scarcely flushed — Mrs. Meredith a rather round- 
faced, happy-looking lady, in a blouse and twill 
skirt ; Mr. Meredith a dry, thin man, looking to be 
exactly what he was — a lawyer — in a neat grey 
tailed suit, with a high forehead and humorous, 
sharp eyes. As a matter of fact, he was a K.C., 
sitting, so to speak, on the very edge of the bench. 

“ Now, Tom,” he said, “ tell us all about them. 
Who’s here? I mean of your sort.” 

Tom took another careful survey of the faces and 
began. It was a big room, high-ceilinged and wide- 
windowed, looking straight out at the end by which 
the new party sat upon the Matterhorn end of the 


68 


THE COWARD 


valley. There sat the monster, guarded by the little, 
black Hoinbi at his base, as a giant might sit with a 
small dog between his knees. And the whole view 
was sublime; it glimmered, from these windows, 
with the blue of a London riding-school. But it 
was not with this that Val was interested just now. 

It was extraordinarily fascinating to Val, for 
there were at least two climbers at the table that day 
of whom he had actually read in printed books ; and 
one of them James Armstrong, Secretary of the 
Alpine Club. (With infinite envy he saw Tom 
presently nod at him and receive a nod in return.) 
There were also, it appeared, staying in the hotel, 
though not present at this moment, a party of four 
men whom Tom had met and climbed with last year. 
They had gone for what was called a “ training- 
walk ” up to the top of the Breithorn, and would be 
back by evening. Tom had learned all those things 
from the hotel-porter upon his arrival. 

“ And what are you boys going to do this after- 
noon? ” 

“ Riffelhorn, father.” 

His mother glanced at Val. 

“ You don’t look very strong, Mr. Val,” she said. 
“ Are you sure ” 

“ Oh! I’m all right, thanks.” 

He had determined to take a firm line at once. 
He was not going to be mothered. 


THE COWARD 


69 


“ And you’ll be back . . . ? ” 

“ For table d'hote, anyhow,” said Tom. 

“ You three alone ? ” 

“ Oh ! we’ll go up the easy way, of course, unless 
Armstrong’ll come. I’ll ask him afterwards. Here 
he comes, by gad.” 

It was a very pleasant man, thought Val, and very 
admirable looking, who came and sat down by them 
on his way out. But he seemed very unsensational- 
looking for the Secretary of the Alpine Club, and 
indeed, with his short whiskers and bald forehead, 
rather resembled a Low Church clergyman. He 
was not even in knickerbockers, but in a grey flannel 
suit, and carried a white canvas hat. He actually 
had a gentian in his buttonhole. He moved slowly 
and easily, as if his limbs were loosely attached to 
his body. 

“ And what are you going to begin with, Tom? ” 
he asked, when all the proper things had been said. 
“ Monte Rosa between tea and dinner ? ” 

“ Riffelhorn,” said Tom decisively. “ We start 
in ten minutes from now. I wish you’d come.” 

The Secretary grinned. 

“ And you walked up from Zermatt this morning! 
And your friends?” 

“ They’re coming too.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said the other gravely to the two 


70 


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boys, “ I solemnly warn you against Mr. Thomas 
Meredith. I hope you won’t stand it for one mo- 
ment. And wouldn’t you much sooner sit quietly 
in the verandah for the rest of the day? ” 

Val dissented enthusiastically. (He thoroughly 
approved of this man.) 

“Well, well; and so it’s the Riffelhorn. Glacier 
side? ” 

Tom explained that his friends had never been in 
Switzerland before; he had proposed the easy way 
up, but if Mr. Armstrong would come they could 
take a rope and do the sky-line. 

Mr. Armstrong sniffed. 

“ You’ll be getting into mischief. I see that. 
Yes, I’ll come if you’ll give me half an hour for a 
cigar and won’t walk too fast. . . . Yes, I 
should think we might- manage the sky-line to- 
gether.” 

He glanced at the three faces with an approving 
humour that made Val’s heart leap with pleasure. 

(in) 

A marmot was feeding on the grass not a hun- 
dred yards from the foot of the Riffelhorn, and not 
fifty from the little lake in whose surface the Mat- 
terhorn lies reversed. 

It was a day of extraordinary peace down here 
in the hollow. On all sides lay hummocky and 


THE COWARD 


7i 


broken ground, rocks, grass, wiry plants, rolling up 
and up towards the path far away that led to the 
Gorner Grat. Overhead lay the sky, an enormous 
hard-looking dome of intense blue deepening to 
black. It was an entire cosmos in itself, silent, self- 
sufficient, complete ; for the iron crags of the Riff el- 
horn, black against the glaring sky, were as remote 
as the sun from the earth. Here was no sound, 
for the breeze had dropped, and not a thread of 
water moved ; only the minute crunching and tear- 
ing of the marmot’s teeth emphasised the stillness. 
Once he heard the shuffle of feet as his friend over 
the nearest slope moved to juicier pasture, and then 
silence fell again. 

The isolation was so complete, the spaces so vast, 
that an interruption would seem to partake of the 
nature of the miraculous; for the world of con- 
sciousness within the marmot’s tiny brain was as 
well rounded and secure as the hollow in which 
he browsed and the earth on which he lived. 
An eternity separated him from the warm morn- 
ing into which he had come to take air and 
food and water; an eternity from the evening in 
which he would go back to his safe darkness and 
his lined nest. Only the sun moved overhead, a 
blazing pool of fire, like Destiny across the sky. 
He had his universe to which his instincts re- 
sponded : there was that within him that had brought 


72 


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him out a few hours ago, that would send him back 
a few hours hence; there was that within him too 
that would respond to the unexpected, should it 
befall him, that would adapt him to his shattered 
world. . . . 

Well, the unexpected happened, as it always 
does; and a phenomenon came into his life that of 
course had come before with the advent of every 
tourist, that, for all that, he continually forgot. 

It began with a tremor of the earth, so subtle, 
and originated at so great a distance, that it did no 
more than cause him to lift his brown chin from 
the grass. Presently it died away, and presently 
began again. 

He sat up abruptly. Still all was as it had been. 
The vast blue vault was unmoved; the Matterhorn 
remained unruffled in its perfect mirror ; the Riff el- 
horn stood up abrupt and forbidding. No voice 
or cry or shot broke the intense, hot silence. Yet 
Destiny approached. 

Five minutes later there was a shrill call and the 
rush of scampering feet. His neighbour had gone 
to ground. Down by the shore there rippled across 
the grass yet another brown body, and vanished. 
The marmots were going to earth. 

Yet still he waited, his ears pricked, his nose mov- 
ing gently. And then, as against the glaring hori- 


THE COWARD 


73 

zon twenty yards away, a white hat rose swinging, 
he too whistled and went. 

The cosmos was broken up. And beneath, in the 
secure darkness, he began once more to adapt him- 
self to his environment. 

It was about two hours and a half after table- 
d’hote that Val suddenly found himself wishing he 
had never been born. That moment comes sooner 
or later to every living being who climbs a mountain. 
It arises from a multitude of causes, and usually 
passes away again with as startling a movement as 
that with which it arrived. Val’s moment was a 
typical case. 

They had started in less than half an hour after a 
rather heavy meal, having preceded that meal with 
an exceedingly hot walk up from the valley, and the 
ascent to the base of the Riffelhorn seemed almost 
endless to a mind accustomed only to English slopes 
and distances. The sun shone straight down with 
an astonishing force upon their backs as they as- 
cended, and Val had almost despaired ever of reach- 
ing even the plateau of the lower Gorner Grat. 
Then, when that was reached, there was a long 
walk over tumbled ground, where Val had his first 
sight of a marmot, and then, at the moment when 
the first slopes of rock were reached and the Riff el- 


74 


THE COWARD 


horn itself, a towering white peak, stood straight 
overhead — at the moment when Val had expected 
to be allowed to throw himself flat on the ground 
to pant and to drink, Tom, with shining eyes, had 
exclaimed : 

“ Now we’re going to begin.” 

Val looked desperately at Austin, and was en- 
raged to see his calmness. Certainly that brother 
of his looked hotter than he had ever seen him be- 
fore; he was flushed heavily, and his face was one 
thin sheet of wet that dripped off his chin and 
nose; but he did not seem at all distressingly ex- 
hausted, and made no protest. Very well then ; Val 
would not either. 

Then, without another word, Tom had set his 
hands upon the rock and risen some four feet. 
Austin came next, then Val, and last Mr. Arm- 
strong, a little behind, since he had paused to ar- 
range his handkerchief delicately under his hat and 
over the back of his neck. He was still in grey 
flannel trousers. . . . 

The climbing did not seem impossibly difficult. 
Certainly it was unlike anything Val had ever done 
before, and it appeared to him strange that the rope 
was not put on, since after a quarter of an hour’s 
climbing, there was a slope of rocks on their right 
that would certainly kill anyone who happened to 
fall over. But he made a strong act of faith in Tom 


THE COWARD 


75 


Meredith, and went on. On the whole he was 
pleased with his prowess. He was also pleased 
that the rope had not been mentioned again. 

Then came the moment when he wished himself 
dead, suddenly and violently — or, rather, that he 
had never been born, since it seemed to him that 
death, abrupt and brutal, was his only possible pros- 
pect. 

They had reached the foot of a little wall of rock 
about twelve feet in height, up which ran a deep 
crack, not deep enough to get inside. The wall 
appeared to Val absolutely insurmountable. Tom 
turned round. 

“ Look here,” he said, “ I think you’d better 
watch my feet, if you don’t mind. This is abso- 
lutely the only bit of climbing on the thing at all. 
And if you start with the wrong foot, you’ll find it 
hard.” 

Val regarded him with horror, but he said noth- 
ing. 

For it seemed to him that not only had they been 
climbing, but that the climbing was quite tolerably 
hard. He looked down the side of rock up which 
they had scaled their way just now. The view 
ended abruptly some fifteen feet below him, and the 
next solid earth to be seen beyond was, perhaps, 
three hundred feet distant. And now they were to 
ascend on the top of all this, an apparently per- 


THE COWARD 


76 

pendicular wall. To fall on it would mean certain 
death. One would pitch first on the slope, roll three 
yards, fall again, bounce off, and then land — well 
— three hundred feet below. All this was entirely 
clear to him ; and he marvelled. ... He 
glanced at Mr. Armstrong. 

That gentleman still held between his teeth a 
stalk of grass he had plucked at the foot of the lit- 
tle peak : he was twiddling it about with his tongue. 

“ This is your patent way up, isn’t it, Tom? ” 

“ Just a variation: we meet the regular way at 
the top of this.” 

“ I thought so. Up you go, then.” 

Val leaned back and watched. 

He looked first at Tom, who now resembled an 
enormous spider going up a wall, attached to it, it 
appeared, merely by some mysterious power of suc- 
tion. His body seemed to have dwindled to noth- 
ing; there were just four limbs of unsuspected 
length, writhing their way upwards. Then he 
looked at Austin : Austin, silent and apparently un- 
moved, was watching closely where Tom put his 
hands and feet. Then he stared out desolately at 
the huge spaces about him, the gulf of air up which 
they had come; the enormous sky, hard and near- 
looking, just beyond those ruddy rocks. He con- 
sidered that he was a fool; for the agony was not 
upon him yet — a fool, no more at present. 


THE COWARD 


77 

“ Come on,” said a voice; and there was Tom, 
grinning like a griffin on a gate-post, peering down 
from the summit of this wall that seemed now the 
end of all things. His face seemed sinister and 
dark against that tremendous blue sky — sinister 
even in its happy grin of physical delight. 

But it was Austin’s turn next; and with a kind of 
fascination, he watched his brother go up, aided by 
remarks — “ Right foot there; . . . now your 
left hand here; . . . yes; let go with your 
right ” — until with a heave, Austin wriggled over 
the top of the wall and instantly vanished. 

And then he knew that he must go forward. 

“ Which foot first?” he stammered. . . . 

The moment came when he was half-way up. 
Up to that point he had obeyed, simply and blindly, 
with a sense of fatality more weighty even than his 
own despair. He had found himself rising . . . 

rising, exactly as Tom told him; once even a flush 
of exultation thrilled through him, as he considered 
that he was doing very admirably for his first 
climb. 

And immediately after the exultation came the 
horror. He put out his wrong hand, seeing, as he 
thought, a corner of rock which simply demanded 
it; he let go with his left hand, shifted his position, 
lost control; and for about five seconds hung, he 
thought, merely by one hand and one foot, and that 


THE COWARD 


78 

his foot was slipping. He was entirely unable to 
speak. . . . No one spoke. . . . 

In those instants came the full horror on him. 
He saw, as in a vision, the rocks below him, the 
gulf below the rocks. He was perfectly certain 
that no power on earth could now save him; and 
that interior act of which I have spoken, though 
with a vehemence quite impossible to describe, ex- 
ploded within him like gunpowder. Why had he 
ever been born? His cosmos was unexpectedly 
shattered. . . . 

“ Go on. Eve got you,” said a solemn and tran- 
quil voice. “ Yes, go on. Do as I tell you. Put 
your left hand three inches higher.” 

He felt something firm grip his ankle. He did 
what he was told. He felt his knees shaking vio- 
lently; but the rest was easy; and he too wriggled 
over the top, gripped by the shoulder as he did so, 
and stood up on a broad platform, beside Austin. 
Then the grave face of Mr. Armstrong, with the 
grass-stalk still in his mouth, rose serene and benef- 
icent over the beetling edge. 

(IV) 

The exultation that came on him as he swung his 
way downwards at last, and dropped on to the 
shingle an hour later, was proportionate to his bad 
moment on the way up. 


THE COWARD 


79 


It seemed to him he had done extraordinarily 
well. Certainly he had had a horrible instant; but 
he had shown no signs of it, and that was exactly 
what courage meant. He had done, in fact, a good 
deal better than Austin, since Austin, through hear- 
ing what was said and doing it exactly, had had no 
real difficulty at all. Himself, on the other hand, 
had got into trouble, and had emerged from it 
triumphant. 

There was a good deal of excuse for this exul- 
tation. The superb air in which he had climbed 
was like wine to his heart; his muscles had been 
exercised to the full. Besides, he had, actually, at 
his first attempt, succeeded in what really was rock- 
climbing, after all. Even Armstrong had implied 
that it was a good deal to do, after the morning 
walk from Zermatt. 

“ I thought you always put on the rope for the 
sky-line of the Riffelhorn,” he said to Tom as they 
swung homewards. 

“ Most people do. I’ve done it without, though.” 

“ I’m glad we didn’t.” 

“ Eh?” 

“ I’m glad we didn’t,” explained Val. 

“ That wasn’t the sky-line we did.” 

“ But ” 

“ Good Lord, no ; that’s the ladies’ way. All ex- 
cept the bit of wall where you were shoved.” 


8o 


THE COWARD 


“And that’s the easiest way?” said Val, with 
sinking heart. 

“Of course, my dear chap. Armstrong thought 
we’d better not try the sky-line till you’d seen what 
you could do.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“ There was a pause. Then Val put the question 
he had longed to put for the last hour. 

“ And did I ... we ... do pretty 
well ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Tom indifferently. 


CHAPTER V 


(i) 

TT was rather distressing that the next day was 
A Sunday, since convention at the Riffelalp (at 
least in those days) demanded that no big expedi- 
tion should be undertaken, unless, indeed, a furtive 
start were made for one of the huts after dark 
had fallen. Besides, there was the difficulty of 
guides, since these insisted on hearing Mass some- 
time in the course of Sunday morning. Conven- 
tion was enforced too by the almost incredible 
number of clergymen present in the hotel. 

There was a small tin church standing some- 
what to the rear of the hotel, where the English 
attended with a propriety which many of them, it 
is to be feared, did not show at home. The two 
young men in the big room had heard its bell rapidly 
summoning worshippers shortly before eight o’clock, 
and had made remarks. Then they had gone to 
sleep again. But three hours later, in the rear of 
the parents, they had obeyed its call, and presently 
found themselves inside in a temperature of not 
less than seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. An 
81 


82 


THE COWARD 


American organ, blown by its lady player in such 
a manner that it always seemed out of breath, wel- 
comed them to their seats. 

Val as regarded his religion was exactly true to 
type. He had been recently confirmed at Eton, 
regarding it as a suitable ceremony of unknown but 
vaguely spiritual import. He looked upon it as a 
kind of religious coming of age. He had no kind 
of doubt as to the existence of God, and he accepted 
the Christian religion as he accepted the stars in 
their courses and the British Constitution. And 
that was about all. 

He set himself to work therefore, as soon as he 
had pulled his trousers up at the knee and resumed 
his seat, to look carefully at everybody present in 
church. He hoped to indentify the climbers, and 
by the end of the Absolution, read by a Dean with 
a brick-coloured face and a voice full of eloquent 
expression, had detected half a dozen. (Tom had 
said he would introduce him to some of them after 
church. ) 

He was more enthusiastic than ever this morning, 
since he felt he had taken his first step towards 
experience on the previous afternoon. He had, of 
course, dreamt of climbing nearly all night. Church 
then, with the slight dreaminess induced by it, was 
exactly the right milieu in which to think over future 


THE COWARD 


83 


conquests; and by the end of the Psalms, read in 
alternate verses by the eloquent Dean and the con- 
gregation, and each closed by the Gloria Patri to 
the accompaniment of the breathless instrument and 
the chant of Gadsby in C, was already half-way up 
the Matterhorn. Gertie too was with him by now, 
looking exceedingly graceful and slender in a short 
climbing skirt, a jacket, and gauntlets. There were 
no guides. They were just climbing together. 

. . He was showing her where to put her hands 

and feet. . . . 

For, beneath all the external interests, Gertie had 
been subconsciously present to him ever since he 
had left England. It gave him more than one 
ecstatic thrill, during an enormous first Lesson all 
about Ahab, to remember that she had pulled back 
her curtain to see him — or them — start. . . . 

It was unhappily the Sunday for the Litany, and 
this religious exercise, coming on the top of the ex- 
treme heat of the church and the weariness result- 
ing from the previous day, caught Val rather off his 
guard. For by the time that “ the kindly fruits of 
the earth ” were mentioned, he was once more cross- 
questioning himself severely as to whether or no 
there were in his own character a certain slight 
strain of weakness. It is very hard to lay interior 
ghosts quite satisfactorily. He thought he had laid 


8 4 


THE COWARD 


this ghost once for all before he had left home, yet 
somehow it was looking at him again ; and he even 
ventured to ask himself this morning whether that 
extreme agony of yesterday, when he had hung for 
five seconds over the gulf, were not a symptom of 
this weakness. It was not that he had the smallest 
doubt as to how he was going to behave in future. 
That had been entirely settled, partly on the way 
home from the Riffelhorn, chiefly after a couple of 
glasses of Asti Spuinante , and finally and com- 
pletely during the delicious moments immediately 
after getting between cool sheets and before going 
to sleep. In future nothing at all was to disturb 
him; he was to behave perfectly always. Only, in 
this drowsy atmosphere, lulled by the rhythm of the 
Litany, he thought it wise just to run over the past 
once more and make quite certain that his tremors 
had been no more than interior. Courage, he told 
himself, consisted in disregarding such tre- 
mors. . . . 

(n) 

It was really almost worth while to have gone to 
church, to come out into the delicious pine-scented 
air and the breeze, and to look upon the blue view. 
Mr. Meredith gave a long sigh of happiness. 

“ That’s the fourth time, to my certain knowl- 
edge, that that man has preached on, Why hop ye so, 


THE COWARD 85 

ye high hills? And it’s a thing I’ve really never 
seen them do.” 

Mr. Meredith presented an almost perfect picture 
of the God-fearing English gentleman on a holiday. 
He was in another grey tail-suit this morning of 
a slightly more ample cut; he had on the top of 
his clever head a neat Panama hat with a black 
ribbon, and over his brown boots — presumably out 
of respect for the day — a pair of white spats. He 
had taken the bag round in church, too, with an 
air of mingled humility and capability, and felt that 
he had done his duty adequately and even generously 
till this time next week. . . . He did not very 

often go to church at home. 

But the Dean’s sermon, which certainly had been 
rather long for a hot Sunday morning, though as- 
tonishingly fluent and verbose, seemed to have 
rendered this listener of his a little peevish. 

“ I always feel like a Layman,” he said, “ of the 

clerical sort, of course, whenever that man 

Oh! how do you do, Mr. Dean? ” 

(He turned, all smiles, to greet his pastor, who 
had saluted him in a virile voice.) 

“ I was just speaking of your excellent sermon,” 
he continued. “ What an eminently suitable text, 
if I may say so.” 

“Oh! yes. You know,” said the Dean (who 
held evening services for men on Sundays in his 


86 


THE COWARD 


cathedral at home), “ I always try to suit my matter 
to the occasion. . . . And those are your young 

people? . . . Good morning, Mrs. Meredith.” 

He patted Val briskly on the shoulder. He was 
always tactful and manly with males, and deferential 
to females. 

Mr. Meredith explained. 

“Ah! yes; just so. Of Medhurst, isn’t it? I 
met your father only two years ago.” 

Val looked politely sullen, as boys of sixteen do. 

“ And I suppose you’ve come out to do great 
things,” pursued the Dean, clapping him again on 
the shoulder. 

Val’s hatred rose to an acute point. But he 
grinned courteously and said nothing. 

“ Val,” said a voice. And there was Tom, with 
two long-legged young men. 

He detached himself courteously from the Dean. 

“ These are the two Mr. Ratcliffes,” explained 
Tom rapidly and unceremoniously. . . . “Oh! 

this is Valentine Medd. I say, Val, they want us 
three for an expedition on Thursday.” 

Jack Ratcliffe explained. 

It seemed that the other two of their party were 
leaving on Wednesday. There was a comparatively 
mild expedition that they wished to make ; it began 
with the ascent of the Theodulhorn, continued with 
the ice arete running from that peak to the foot of 


THE COWARD 


87 


the Matterhorn. Then the lower slopes of the 
Matterhorn itself were to be crossed, ending up be- 
low the Hoinbi. They would call for a meal at the 
Schwarz-See hotel, and return to the Riffelalp dur- 
ing the afternoon. 

“ Look here,” said Jack, “ I can point it out from 
just round the corner. Come this way.” 

They went round the angle of the hotel, on the 
embattled terrace that looks out over the valley, and 
Jack pointed it out. It looked a pretty long walk 
even from here. It was an immense curved snow 
wall, sharp and jagged against the sky. 

“ We’ll have to start not later than four in the 
morning. It’s a perfectly gorgeous view — seventy 
miles one way and a hundred the other. Are you 
chaps in training? ” 

“ We will be by Thursday.” 

"Well, you’ll come? We need only take one 
guide. I’ll be leading guide. That settled ? ” 

(He spoke in rapid, jerky sentences. He was 
obviously a capable person.) 

“ Yes ; we’ll come. Rather. I’ve never done it. 
You and Austin are game? ” 

Val nodded. 

“ Rather. ... If you think we can do it,” 
he added in a burst of modesty. 

“ Lord, yes! It’s a ladies’ climb; it’s only rather 
long.” 


88 


THE COWARD 


The three toiled up the Gorner Grat that after- 
noon, for a “ training walk.” Civilised life in 
England permits to gather at certain points of the 
person deposits of a substance which is almost 
wholly useless for athletic purposes. It also allows 
to lapse by desuetude certain muscles, particularly 
in the thigh, which are essential to very prolonged 
walking. It was for the removal of the one and 
the development of the other that these three young 
men, in flannel trousers, heavy boots, and shirts, 
and carrying their jackets over their arms as soon 
as they got out of sight of the hotel, went almost 
wordlessly, so great was the pace, first up the zig- 
zag ascent to the Riffelberg, then, leaving the van- 
quished Riffelhorn first on their right, up that 
enormous flat back which leads unsensationally to 
the summit of the Gorner. 

The view from the top is superb. One is sur- 
rounded entirely by giant snow peaks, from Monte 
Rosa to the Matterhorn in one sweep; from the 
Matterhorn to the Weisshorn in another; and so 
round again, by the Dorn, back to Monte Rosa 
again. There they stand, that eternal ring of 
giants, one white blaze in the sunlight, backed by a 
sky darkening in the zenith almost to blackness, so 
rare is the air and so intense the blue. The vast 
glacier sleeps below, beneath the slopes of tumbled 
snow-fields from which the peaks begin — tumbled 


THE COWARD 


89 

as if monstrous children had been at play amongst 
them. Yet, so vast are the distances that a large 
party crossing the glacier at the nearer end would 
look no more than a snippet of black thread against 
the white. 

“ Fifty minutes since the last stop,” panted Tom 
as he touched the cairn. “ We must do better than 
that. Now, you chaps, we must do that downhill 
in twenty. . . . I’ll tell you the peaks in the 

hotel this evening.’" 


(m) 

The conversation that night was tremendous. 

The five sat out together on the terrace, with a 
small table in the midst (the parents twenty yards 
away talking to the Dean), and discussed climb- 
ing from every possible point of view. It is not 
proposed to report their conversation. On the 
table stood a tray with five glasses, a bottle, and 
three siphons, and Jack Ratcliff e grew almost elo- 
quent on the pernicious effects of spirits taken en 
route , unless in the case of real exhaustion. In 
the evening, it seemed, a glass or two would hurt 
nobody; and Val, over the first whisky and soda 
ever drunk by him, assented, shuddering furtively 
meanwhile at the nauseous taste. Austin drank a 
plain soda, and regarded his desperate young 
brother with a face of discreet severity. 


9 ° 


THE COWARD 


And meanwhile Val’s enthusiasm grew higher 
every minute. 

He relapsed into an intense silence at last, listen- 
ing to the talk, watching Jack’s face glow and 
darken again luridly as he drew on his cigarette, and 
meantime constructing and constructing day-dream 
after day-dream of Gertie and the mountains and 
the mountains and Gertie. He was in a pleasant 
glow after food and wine, a glow warmed up again 
by that exceedingly disagreeable drink he had had 
just now. His muscles were relaxed after the tense 
exercise of yesterday and to-day; and he was look- 
ing forward, with a zeal untouched now by even 
the faintest apprehensiveness, to the expedition up 
the Gorner glacier to-morrow. 

(“ You chaps must have a bit of real ice-work 
before Thursday,” Tom had panted parenthetically 
on the way down from the Gorner Grat this after- 
noon.) 

Then, finally, as the terrace began to empty and 
Val to be aware of drowsiness, the subject was in- 
troduced which had been on his mind ever since 
yesterday morning, yet which he had not dared to 
mention again. 

They had sat silent for a minute. Jim Ratcliff e, 
a stoutish young man of twenty-five, yet a “ devil to 
go,” as Tom had said this afternoon, had beaten 


THE COWARD 


9i 


out his pipe and stood up. The great silence of 
nightfall had descended; the murmur of streams re- 
leased by the sun all day to pour in ten thousand 
channels down to the Zermatt valley, now lying in 
the darkness below, were chained up again by frost 
up there, four and five thousand feet above this 
hotel. To sight too the world had faded ; or, rather, 
had closed in under cover of the night, so that the 
mountains far off across the valley now stood, it 
seemed, in shadowy lines scarcely a hundred yards 
away. Only there still stood out, dominant and 
tremendous, glimmering in starlight, itself blot- 
ting out the stars, as august and unattainable as 
ever, the huge wedge called the Matterhorn. 

Then Tom spoke; and sentences followed with 
impressive and business-like rapidity. 

“ I say, Jack, these chaps want to do the Matter- 
horn before they go.” 

“ Well, why shouldn’t they? ” 

“ Think it’s all right ? It’s their first time, you 
know.” ' 

“ Good Lord, that doesn’t matter. They can do it 
all right. Who’ll you get ? ” 

“ I thought of Ulrich Edersheim, if he isn’t en- 
gaged; and Heinrich Aimer.” 

“ You’ll be lucky if you get them.” 

“ Think I could engage them now? ” 

“ Armstrong’s been climbing with Ulrich lately. 


92 


THE COWARD 


I’d speak to him if I were you; I rather think he’s 
got first claim on him for the season.” 

“If you think there’s any risk ” began Aus- 

tin’s deliberate voice out of the darkness. 

Val snorted uncontrollably. Sometimes he did it 
on purpose; but this time it was perfectly spontane- 
ous. 

“ My dear chap,” said Tom. “ We’ve simply got 
to settle at once, if we’re to get those guides. 
We’ve only a fortnight, you see.” 

“And do you think we’re capable of doing it? ” 
pursued Austin, with severe conscientiousness. 

There was just the faintest pause of hesitation 
before the answer came. But when it came its 
heartiness made up for all. 

“I’m perfectly certain you can — both of you. 
You climbed first-rate yesterday. Well, in the 
Matterhorn you’ve only got to go on doing it for 
eight hours, instead of half an hour.” 

“Of course we can do it, Austin,” put in Val in 
a tone of indignant and contemptuous protest. 
“ At least if we can’t it’ll be our own fault. We’ve 
plenty of time to learn the tricks.” 

“ Exactly,” said Tom briefly. “ But you must 
work hard, you know. You must have a good go 
on ice.” 

“ What’s the matter with to-morrow? ” said Jack, 


THE COWARD 


93 

who had spent the previous week in the company 
of Americans. 

“ That’ll do very well,” observed Tom. “ We’ll 
just have a good steady day on the Gorner. Start 
at ten.” 

“ And we’ll try to get Armstrong again.” 

(IV) 

The parents Meredith stood at precisely the oppo- 
site standpoint, with regard to Switzerland, to that 
occupied by their young men. And, indeed, there 
is a great deal to be said for it. 

For, to them, Switzerland was primarily a place 
of superb rest — of superb views, air, climate, and 
idleness. The hotel in which they stayed must be, 
as the advertisements here stated, replete with every 
modern convenience. It must be large, expensive, 
well served, provided with a lift; it must be sur- 
rounded by flat walks; it must contain a French 
chef; it must be filled with the right kind of peo- 
ple and not too many of the wrong; it must have 
bath-rooms, and, for Mrs. Meredith’s sake at least, 
an English chapel and a chaplain, if possible, of a 
decent eminence in his own country. 

All those things were, under the presidence of 
Herr Seiler, exactly suitable. One breakfasted, 
leisurely, about nine; one read the papers, smoked 


94 


THE COWARD 


a cigar or so, and looked at the view till lunch. 
One slept gently for an hour or so ; then, sometimes 
with a tea-basket and sometimes without, walked 
quite slowly a couple of miles through exquisite 
pine forests, observed views once more, breathed 
some quite first-rate air, and then strolled back 
again in time to dress comfortably for dinner. 
Food followed, and then an evening of gentle, 
shrewd talk, some whisky and soda, three nice 
cigars, and bed — altogether a blameless and re- 
creating existence, almost perfectly calculated to 
restore an extremely prosperous Counsel who 
worked at a pressure and for periods that would 
dismay those democratic philanthropists who were 
beginning already to preach the gospel of Not Too 
Much Work. And Mrs. Meredith supplied precisely 
the right kind of temperament in which to lead such 
a life. 

There are few persons so delightful as first-rate 
barristers on a holiday, and Mr. Meredith was a 
first-rate specimen. He was emphatically a gentle- 
man; he was shrewd, tolerant, humorous with a 
touch of cynicism; scrupulously conventional in 
manner and unconventional in mind. He looked 
his part, too, to perfection; his face was keen and 
kindly and clean shaven ; he had an air of suppressed 


THE COWARD 


95 


and beneficent power. His old friends found him 
always the same, and new acquaintances rapidly 
considered themselves his friends. He was always 
in the most intelligent circle in the smoking-room 
and the verandahs; he told new stories exceedingly 
well; and he had the art of appearing subtly in- 
terested in anyone who spoke to him. Even the 
prize bore of the hotel thought him sympathetic. 

He was gently but sincerely interested in the 
ardour of climbers; and he was discussing it over 
tea on this very Monday afternoon with a judge 
and the eloquent Dean. (Mrs. Meredith was sit- 
ting with the matrons in the drawing-room.) 

“ I am no climber/’ he was saying, “ but I think 
I catch glimpses now and again of the divine secret 
of it. There’s my boy Tom, for instance. I must 
confess I envy him sometimes.” 

The Judge nodded. 

“ I know what you mean,” he said. “ By the 
way, your boy Tom has promised to bring me a 
stone from the top of the Matterhorn.” 

“ It’s very good of you to ” 

“ Not at all. I am perfectly genuine. I shall 
label it and put it in a cabinet with the date and 
circumstances.” 

“ Well, that’s almost an illustration of what I 
mean. Any stone would do, objectively, just as 


9 6 


THE COWARD 


well. And yet there’s a subtle something . . . 

By the way, a friend of mine promised to bring an 
ivy-leaf from Wagner’s grave, for an enthusiast in 
England. He quite forgot it until he was half- 
way back from Bayreuth, so he picked one in a 
station in Germany instead.” 

“ No doubt it did just as well,” said the Dean, 
smiling. 

“ You think so? ” said the Judge, cocking an eye 
at the ecclesiastic. “ W ell, to me that seems simply 
an outrage. It makes no kind of difference that the 
female enthusiast — (I take it that she was female? 
. . . Just so . . .) — that the enthusiast 

never knew. It was a grave moral crime in it- 
self.” 

“ Well,” went on the lawyer, “ climbing seems to 
me an almost infinitely subtle thing. All sport is 
subtle, of course. It is one of the innumerable 
proofs that two and two make five quite as often as 
they make four. Take shooting. Analyse it. It 
consists of two elements and really no more — skill 
and death-dealing. Now neither of these is suffi- 
cient in itself. No man in his senses would enjoy a 
season in which he merely shot at elaborately con- 
cealed clay pigeons; and no man would enjoy kill- 
ing pigs. Yet when you unite the two elements 
you get sport.” 

“ * Not a fourth , but a star,’ ” quoted 


THE COWARD 


9 7 

the Dean, who loved to think he could join in a 
lay conversation with intelligence. 

“Exactly. Well, climbing ” 

“ Yes,” said the Judge, carefully brushing off the 
ash of his cigar on to the little stone wall beside 
him. (They were having tea on the terrace.) 
“ Analyse climbing. I don’t think I understand 
it.” 

“ Well, first there’s the skill. Call it gymnas- 
tics — elaborate and unexpected gymnastics. And 
then there’s the danger.” 

“ Do you think danger ” 

“ Certainly. No one would climb if there were 
nets everywhere. But combine skill and danger 
and you have the real thing — the sport. . . . 

Oh ! I forgot the endurance. That certainly enters 
in. No one could be really keen on climbing rocks. 
It must be a sufficiently exhausting feat to expose 
the roots of the character, so to speak.” 

“ You have left out the wonderful views that are 
surely a part of ” began the Dean. 

“ Excuse me. I am quite confident that views do 
not enter in at all. I questioned my boy very care- 
fully about that. He pretends that they do, of 
course; but it’s obvious they don’t. Why, only 
yesterday the three of them ran straight up to the 
top of the Gorner Grat and back again. They 
identified the names of the peaks that they ought to 


9 8 


THE COWARD 


have seen, in a panoramic map, after dinner; but 
they didn’t look at them at all.” 

“ You think that climbing is a test of character 
then,” asked the Judge. 

“ I think it one of the best I know; and it’s an 
admirable trainer of character too. The fatigue of 
it soon rubs off all the merely showy qualities and 
leaves the real traits naked. And then the danger, 
which is there, more or less, the whole time, tests a 
man’s fidelity to his ideals. A coward either funks 
at a critical moment, or he’s foolhardy. And all 
the real climbers detest both equally. To hear 
Armstrong talk, you’d think that a man who refuses 
to wear a rope in bad places is as much of a poltroon 
as a man who refuses to follow the guide.” 

“ By the way,” put in the Judge, “ are those two 
Medd boys you have with you the Medds of Med- 
hurst? ” Mr. Meredith nodded. 

“ A very finely bred family,” he said. “ They’ve 
avoided too much intermarrying too. It’s extraor- 
dinary to me how anyone can deny heredity. 
And with regard to such qualities as pluck and 
honour, I’d trust either of those two boys absolutely 
— I don’t say wisdom, or judgment; those come 
largely from experience; but for the real old 
chivalric virtues you simply cannot beat these old 
families. I’m a full-blooded plebeian myself ; but I 
recognise descent when I see it.” 


THE COWARD 


99 

“ What about the chorus-girls, though, that most 
of them marry nowadays? ” 

“Well, I think a little of that blood doesn’t do 
any harm. There’s pluck there, you know, too. 
For sheer moral courage I think the courage of a 
chorus-girl, who dances on a lighted stage in an 
insufficient costume, before strangers on whose ap- 
proval her whole future depends — well, it’s hard 
to beat. But those Medds have done nothing of 
that sort. They and a few others like them are 
really the pride of our people. I wouldn’t exchange 
them for ten thousand democracies.” 

“ I think this is your party coming back, Mr. 
Meredith,” observed the Dean, upon whose face a 
faintly grieved disapprobation was beginning to 
show itself. (He thought the subject of chorus- 
girls not wholly suitable to his friends’ company.) 

The lawyer lifted a slow eye over the terrace 
wall. 

“ Yes, there they are,” he said. “ Now look at 
that delightful roll they’ve all got, coming uphill. 
My boy explained it to me once. You must swing 
your feet round, not lift them. All the guides do it ; 
it saves you enormous exertion in a long day. And 
what prudence! . . . And what perseverance 

to keep it up.” 

“ Ah ! they’re in sight of the hotel now,” observed 
the Judge cynically. 


IOO 


THE COWARD 


They looked strangely unsociable as they ad- 
vanced, but exceedingly capable and business-like — 
muscular, spare figures in what is, after the days 
of ancient Greeks, perhaps the most picturesque 
costume known to the human race — well-made 
knickerbockers and jackets, caps, low gaiters, and 
great sensible boots moulded wonderfully to the 
foot. Each carried an axe whose head shone like 
silver in the low, level sunlight, and Tom, who led, 
carried a rope coiled over one shoulder and under 
the other arm; each was burnt by the glare of the 
sun on the ice all day to a fine manly bronze. And 
they came up, as the observer had pointed out, with 
that steady, strong swing that every climber who 
wishes to endure must set himself to acquire. Tom 
was leading, Austin followed, then after a space, 
walking by the side of the path, came Val, while the 
middle-aged man came last. 

“ Had a good day?” came a voice over the 
parapet as the party came beneath. 

“ Oh! it was all right,” said Tom. 

Mr. Meredith leant back again. 

“ Now what’s up, I wonder,” he said; “ the boys 
have had a row. I know Tom’s manner. I must 
examine Armstrong.” 


THE COWARD 


IOI 


(V) 

“ I assure you it was nothing but inexperience,” 
said the Secretary, as the two sat together in the 
gloom at the end of the long glass verandah, 
whither the lawyer had inveigled him after dinner. 
“ Nothing but inexperience. He simply didn’t know 
the danger.” 

The lawyer carefully squirted some soda-water 
into his long glass. 

“ The essence of the crime was insubordination, 
I gather ? The recklessness was secondary ? ” 

“ I suppose you might say so. We had got to 
the foot of the seracs •” 

“ Interpret, please.” 

“ The seracs are the tumbled and broken part of 
the glacier — the actual fall of the river, so to speak. 
Well, I wouldn’t dream of doing those seracs 
unroped, however experienced the climbers may be. 
To slip badly means death in nine cases out of ten. 
Of course you can’t generally see the death; there’s 
no great drop below you at any point down to the 
mean level. But there are first, the crevasses — 
some of which go down to the bed of the glacier — 
say eight hundred feet, and then there’s the danger 
of an ice pinnacle falling.” 

“ I see.” 

“ Well, Master Val refused to put on the rope. 


102 


THE COWARD 


While I was getting the rope ready he went on, 
which he had no business to do, and got on the top 
of a ridge. I told him to come back, btit he said he 
was all right, and he argued a bit while I was 
wrestling with a knot and talking in between. Then 
he went on again, and laughed out loud, and pre- 
tended it was a joke.” 

“ You mean he flatly disobeyed.” 

“ No, not flatly. Indirectly. I hardly liked to 
call him back outright. He was in quite a bad 
place, though it didn’t look very bad. And I must 
say he climbed well. But you know that sort of 
thing really mustn’t happen. I told him so plainly, 
and he did me the honour to sulk.” 

Mr. Meredith drank off the contents of his glass. 

“ Well, what am I to say to him? Shall I forbid 
him to climb again ? ” 

“ Good gad, no ! It was simply ignorance of 
what he was doing. And he knows now. The 
elder boy gave him what for. You can always 
trust a brother to be brutal.” 

“ And Tom?” 

“ Tom looked like Rhadamanthus. I don’t think 
Master Val liked that. . . . No, just tell him 

quite gently and lightly (you know how) that no 
decent climber ever dreams of disobeying the leader 
of the party, and that you’re perfectly certain he 
won’t do it again-' - 


THE COWARD 


103 


“ He’s got plenty of pluck, I suppose? ” 

“ Oh, Lord ! yes.” 

“ Right. Well, I’ll catch him before he goes to 
bed.” 

“ Shall I send him to you ? I saw him in the 
smoking-room just now.” 

“ Do. Thanks very much. And you’ll tell me if 
he ever behaves badly again. You’re going with 
them on Monday, aren’t you ? ” 

“ I think so. Oh ! I’ll tell you all right. But I 
don’t think there’ll be any need.” 

Val had a sprightly and genial air as presently 
he came along the corridor to where the lawyer 
waited for him. He made a handsome, smart figure 
with his white shirt-front and his browned, bright- 
eyed face, and he carried himself with a distinctly 
exaggerated ease. 

“ Want to see me, sir ? ” 

“ Yes, my boy. Sit down a minute. . . , It 

was about the expedition of this afternoon. . 

You know I’m bound to look after you a bit, aren’t 
I?” 

He glanced up with shrewd, kind eyes (Val was 
sitting absolutely motionless in an attitude of de- 
tached and frozen dignity). He didn’t like doing 
it at all, but he did not propose to flinch. 

“ Well, I thought I’d better explain what perhaps 


104 


THE COWARD 


you didn’t know : that on those climbing expeditions 
one man must always take charge and be responsible. 
I’ve been talking to Mr. Armstrong; he’s a magnifi- 
cent climber, you know, and by no means timid. 
Well, he tells me you didn’t seem to understand 
about the rope, and thought you were safe without 
it. I dare say you were — as certainly the event 
proved — but for all that, the rest of the climbers 
must always be very particular to observe dis- 
cipline. . . 

He paused, hoping to be reassured that the boy 
was not still sulking. Val remained motionless and 
silent. 

“ Well,” said the older man a trifle more coldly, 
“ you must please to understand that what happened 
this afternoon mustn’t occur again. I don’t ask you 
to give me your word, because I’m certain that’s 
unnecessary. But it must not happen again. I am 
responsible for you as long as you are with me ; and 
on climbing expeditions, when I’m not there, you 
must please to regard the leader of the expedition, 
whoever he may be, as your superior officer. When 
you are head of any expedition yourself you will 
have to demand the same thing from the rest.” 

Again there was a pause. It was obvious that 
the boy was sulking badly. He remained perfectly 
motionless, his eyelids slightly lowered in such a 
way as to give him an air of extraordinary insolence. 


THE COWARD 


105 


A pang of real pity mingled with impatience touched 
the heart of the other. He knew exactly how the 
other felt — humiliated and enraged ; and yet that 
his breeding forbade him to utter either emotion. 

“ Look here, my boy ; I know it’s disagreeable to 
be found fault with. But I should like to tell you, 
on the other side, that Mr. Armstrong said you 
climbed with real courage and skill. He parti- 
cularly ” 

He stopped, astonished at the deep flush of pleas- 
ure in the boy’s face. Val turned to him, his eyes 
swimming and his whole face a-smile. 

“ Thank you, sir. . . . And I beg your par- 

don. I have been behaving like a boor.” 

The elder man put out his hand, really touched 
by this self-humiliation and apology. Val took it. 

“ That’s all right, old chap. That’s all right.” 

He still sat on a minute or two after Val had 
left him for bed. (The boy said that the glare of 
the sunlit ice had made him by now almost blind 
with sleep.) 

“ Queer chap,” he said to himself. “ Bundle of 
nerves, I should say.” 


CHAPTER VI 



He stopped abruptly as a waiter came, cleared away 
a little tray of glasses, and vanished once more. 

The two brothers were talking to one another in 
the empty smoking-room, with that extraordinary 
frankness on which mere friends dare not venture 
lest the last ties of unity should be dissolved. 

Austin had begun it, of course, by such a studi- 
ously tactful sentence that irritation on Val’s part 
followed inevitably — a sentence accompanied by a 
careful adjustment of a little protruding tobacco at 
the end of his cigarette. And Austin had been pro- 
voked to it, he would have said, by Val’s nonchalant 
air as he swaggered in. It was simply impossible 
for the elder brother to refrain from such criticisms 
sometimes, though he ought to have learned their 
futility long ago; for he was of those persons who 
are practically always in the right and have an 
amazing power of discerning when others are in the 
106 


THE COWARD 


107 

wrong. If they themselves were wrong sometimes 
it would not matter nearly so much. 

He had just observed for the second time that it 
was all very well talking, but the fact remained 
that Val had not observed the etiquette this 
afternoon. And he had added with a maddening 
humility : 

“ I’ve got to learn just as much as you have, my 
dear chap. I’ve got to do exactly what I’m told 
too.” 

When the waiter had gone again, yawning a little 
ostentatiously, for it was getting on for midnight, 
and he would have to be up and dressed by six, Val 
finished his sentence. 

“ As a matter of fact, I’ve talked it all out with 
old Meredith. I don’t see there’s any necessity for 
going into it again, particularly with you.” 

Austin half closed his eyes as if in resignation. 

“ And why not with me? ” 

“ Because, as you’ve just said, you don’t know 
anything about it.” 

This was precisely true. Austin had an impulse 
to say no more. But Val was sitting on the edge of 
a table and swinging his leg with such an air that 
it was impossible to be silent. 

“ I know enough about it to . . . to behave 

decently on the ice with a man like Armstrong. I 
was simply ashamed of you.” 


io8 


THE COWARD 


Val turned an insolent face on him. 

“ Awful good of you, old man. Hadn’t you 
better keep your shame for the next time you want 
it yourself? ” 

Austin rose with dignity. 

“ I’ve no more to say after that,” he said. “ But 
you’ll kindly remember that I am responsible for 
you to some extent at any rate ; and I don’t want to 
have to write home and say ” 

“ Are you? ” asked Val, with an air of bewildered 
innocence. “ I thought Meredith was.” 

Austin went to the door. When he reached it he 
turned. 

“ Perhaps you aren’t aware that you’re keeping 
the whole hotel up? Everyone else has gone to 
bed.” 

“ Well, you’d better look sharp, then,” said Val, 
without turning round. “ You mustn’t lose your 
beauty sleep.” 


(n) 

Five minutes later Val too walked along the 
corridors on his way to bed. 

He had scored distinctly just now, in the little 
engagement. Usually it was he who lost his temper 
first and left the room. But in this instance, still 
vibrating from his encounter with “ old Meredith,” 


THE COWARD 


109 

he had struck more sharply and shrewdly than usual, 
preserving his balance meanwhile. 

Yet, by the time he had reached the room that the 
two brothers shared, his exultation was gone; and 
a rather hollow and sick feeling was beginning to 
reassert itself — the tide whose first bitter waves 
had broken on his conscience even while still on the 
glacier, so soon as he had recognised that reck- 
lessness was not thought admirable. It had seemed 
to him so fine at the time. ... A spasm had 
seized him, and he had pushed on, knowing perfectly 
well that he ought not to have done so, yet impelled 
by a vague desire to prove himself as courageous 
as he had wished to be; he had gone up the edge of 
the serac swiftly and cleverly, and had balanced him- 
self on the top with a sense of triumph. And then, 
little by little, he had begun to realise he had behaved 
badly. 

Austin was reading resolutely in bed, as the other 
came in. A dark head, a humped shoulder, and the 
pages of a Tauchnitz volume revealed him to be 
there and awake. Val began to whistle gently. 
The head moved irritably on the pillow. Val smiled 
deliberately to himself and stopped whistling. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said elaborately. 

There was no answer. 


I IO 


THE COWARD 


By the time he was in bed a more generous mood 
was on him. He snuggled down into the sheets. 

“ I say, old man, will you put out the lights when 
you’ve done. I’m going to sleep.” 

“ You can put them out now,” said a cold voice. 
“ I was only waiting for you.” 

“ Sure ? I can wait a few minutes if you want.” 

“ No; it’s all right.” 

Val sprang up in bed, switched off the lights, and 
sank down again. 

“ I say, Austin.” 

“ Well?” 

“ I’m sorry I spoke like that just now,” said Val, 
with an effort. “ I was beastly ; I’m sorry.” 

“ That’s all right,” said the cold voice. 

(It was one of the most emphatic rules of the 
brotherly warfare that an apology must be instantly 
accepted, and no further reference made to the crime 
by the injured party.) 

But Val felt very generous just now. 

“ Yes, I really am,” he said. “ And I was entirely 
in the wrong this afternoon too.” 

Austin was still a little sore, and could not resist 
preaching. 

“ I’m glad you see that,” came his voice from the 
darkness. “ It’s very important, you know, not 


THE COWARD 


hi 


I’ve said I’m sorry, haven’t I? Do you want 
me to say it again ? ” 

There was silence. 

“I really thought it wasn’t a bad place, you 
know,” pursued Val. “ But I quite see now that 
that makes no difference. Old Meredith gave me 
what for, all right. ... I say, do you think 
Tom was sick? ” 

“ Do you wish me to say? You found fault with 
me just now for saying anything after you’d 
said ” 

“ Good Lord!” snapped Val, breaking off this 
rather intricate sentence. “ I asked you a question.” 

Austin sniffed. The sound was very distinct in 
the silent shadows. 

“ Well — yes, he was, if you want to know. He 
said ” 

Austin broke off. He was simply an adept at 
provocative aposiopeses ; and I am afraid they were 
frequently deliberate. 

“ What did he say? ” asked Val all in one breath. 

“ He said it really wasn’t safe to climb with people 
who wouldn’t do what they were told.” 

“ Did he?” 

“ I am saying that he did.” 

There followed a silence. 


“ Austin.” 


1 12 


THE COWARD 


“ Well? ” 

“ I’d better apologise to him too, hadn’t I? ” 

“ I shouldn’t think it would make much difference, 
your apologising. The thing to do is not to do it 
again.” 

There was an indignant rustle in the darkness. 

“ Good Lord, Austin. Can’t you open your 
mouth without preaching? Haven’t I said ” 

Then a solemn and judicial voice silenced him. 

“ I think you’d better go to sleep. You aren’t in a 
frame of mind to talk about it to-night. Good 
night, Val.” 

An insolent snore answered him. 

(m) 

Tom Meredith came down to breakfast rather late 
next morning; and, as he passed through on to the 
verandah, whither he had bidden a passing waiter to 
bring his coffee and rolls, a knickerbockered figure 
in a white hat, sitting in the sun, rose and greeted 
him. 

“ Morning, Tom. Going to breakfast?” 

Tom nodded. 

“ May I come and sit with you ! I want to talk. 
Don’t mind a cigarette, do you ? ” 

When the waiter had gone again, Val began. 

“ I say, Tom ; I wanted to say I was beastly sorry 


THE COWARD 


ii3 

about yesterday — about my not obeying, you know. 
Really I didn’t know how important it was.” 

“ That’s all right, old chap,” said Tom uncomfort- 
ably. (He privately wished people wouldn’t talk 
like this.) 

“ No, really I didn’t. I thought it wasn’t a bad 
enough place,” pursued Val eagerly. . . . “ Yes, 

I know what you were going to say — that that 
doesn’t make any difference. I know that too, 
now.” 

Tom miserably began to butter his roll. He 
couldn’t conceive what all the fuss was about. 
Certainly Val had done what he shouldn’t; but he 
had been told that, and naturally he wouldn’t do it 
again. 

Val drew three rapid breaths of cigarette-smoke. 

“ You won’t mind my climbing with you again, 
will you ? ” 

“ Of course not, my good chap ! What made you 
think ” 

“ Didn’t you say to Austin it wasn’t safe to climb 
with people who didn’t do what they were told ? ” 

Poor Tom racked his memory. (Really this ad- 
miring youth was becoming something of a bore.) 

“ Er — I don’t remember that I did.” 

“ You didn’t say it? ” 

“ I don’t think so.” 

Val rose impressively. 


THE COWARD 


1 14 

“ Well, all that I can say is ” he broke off. 

“ Well, I’m sorry, anyhow. And I thought I’d 
better say so. And I promise not to do it again.” 

“ That’s all right,” murmured Tom. 

“ See you later,” said Val, vanishing. 

“ Austin,” came a solemn voice five minutes after- 
wards in the smoking-room, “ I want to speak to 
you a moment. Do you mind coming out ? ” 

Austin sighed elaborately, and followed him. 

Val went, as one leading a criminal to execution, 
out through the door, down the steps, and on to a 
deserted corner of the sunlit terrace. And there he 
turned. 

“ Didn’t you tell me last night that Tom had said 
he wouldn’t climb again with anyone who disobeyed 
during an expedition? Did you, or did you not? ” 

Austin sighed and sat down on the balustrade. 

“ I did not.” 

" You did!” 

“ I said that Tom said ” — he clasped his head in 
his hands in a gesture of resigned bewilderment — 
“ I said that Tom said that it wasn’t safe to climb 
with people who wouldn’t do what they were told.” 

“ It’s exactly the same thing.” 

“ There seems to me a difference,” observed the 
other wearily. 


THE COWARD 


“5 

“Well, he didn’t say it anyhow — or anything 
like it. I’ve just asked him.” 

“ Then he’s simply forgotten. I tell you he did 
say it to me — in the smoking-room directly after 
dinner.” 

“ Was anyone else with you? ” 

“ I think not at that moment.” 

Val sneered. 

“ Very convenient,” he said. “ Well, anyhow, 
Tom says he didn’t. And he says he’s simply 
delighted to go on climbing with me, just as be- 
fore; and absolutely everything you said about him 
last night is rot. ... I mean,” explained Val, 
with offensive courtesy, “ that you must have mis- 
understood him. ... So there,” he ended 
feebly. 

“ Is that what you brought me out here to tell 
me? ” 

“ And enough too, I should think ! ” 

“ It seems to me singularly unimportant,” re- 
marked Austin, getting up again. “ I told you 
exactly what Tom said to me — no more and no less. 
And you drag me out here and explain like . . . 

like a woman. ... If you’ve quite done, I 
think I’ll go indoors again.” 

And he moved back with a stately sauntering 
gait. 


n6 


THE COWARD 


Now all this kind of thing was the worst of Val; 
for it was really characteristic of him. He had a 
nervous system strung on wires; a touch set all 
jangling. And then he would vibrate, and go on 
vibrating; and he would dive into his own being, 
and into little sentences that meant nothing, and 
torture himself and everyone else; and flick out 
particles of dust and disturb himself afresh. And 
then all would die into silence once more; and that 
same nervous system would inspire him to dreams 
and visions and dramatic situations and acute 
emotions that were never justified by the event. 

And so, a couple of hours later, as the three boys 
set out for the Findelen glacier, ropes a-swing and 
axe heads marching in time, peace was returned to 
Val’s soul, and Austin was beginning to recover his 
balance, and Tom was thinking that one really could 
have enough of a good thing — even of admiration 
for the Alps and for Alpine prowess. 


CHAPTER VII 


(i) 

said Armstrong, from the hind end 
of the party, “ no talking until we’re across. 
This is the one risky place, and talking might bring 
some ice down.” 

The expedition had gone excellently so far. They 
had started later than had been intended, and had 
been going now for some eight hours. 

They had left the Riff el an hour or two before 
sunrise, led by the great Ulrich himself, a small- 
built man, so thin as to resemble a badly made 
dummy in loosely fitting clothes, wiry-bearded, 
burned to the colour of old oak, with narrow brighter 
slits for eyes, a snub nose, and a smiling mouth. He 
was in trousers, tied below the knee with string, and 
an ancient coat that had ascended every peak which 
its owner had climbed for the last five years. The 
first part of the walk, in the dark, had taken them 
across the lower slopes of the Gorner Grat and 
down on to the glacier — all simple and easy going 
— the rope was not even suggested. There they 
ii 7 


n8 


THE COWARD 


had seen the sky grow from indigo to translucent 
sapphire and the stars go out; the marvellous flush 
of rose and gold crept down the peaks to meet them ; 
and by the time that they were on the summit of 
the Theodulhorn — the outstanding tower, so to 
speak, of the long ice-wall that ended far away on 
the right in the Matterhorn itself — broad day was 
come; and ten thousand water-tongues, loosened 
by their lord the Sun, had swelled into that deep, 
murmurous chorus that sings all day from fields of 
ice and light. 

From the Theodulhorn they had surveyed first 
the great peaks about them — the Breithorn, the 
twins beyond, and the enormous masses of Monte 
Rosa herself on the one side, and the Matterhorn, 
the Gabelhorn, the Weisshorn on the other. The 
Riffelhorn looked like a little ruined house across 
the glacier. Then they had examined their route. 

This was the long arete leading from where they 
stood up to the base of the Giant — a knife-edge, 
serrated and jagged, it seemed, from where they 
were, yet, as they presently found, easy going 
enough if you omit the element of fatigue. For 
the sun beat on them as from the open door of a 
furnace; the ice was largely snow, into which now 
and then an unwary traveller plunged to the knee; 
there was a brisk wind blowing in their faces, cool- 
ing indeed, but indescribably wearying from the 


THE COWARD 


119 

efforts they had to make against it. Twice they 
had stopped for food, and twice, therefore, Val for 
one had thought he would sooner die than go on 
again; and yet twice also he had not said an un- 
necessary word, but had set his face like a flint and 
plunged obediently forward in the steps of Ulrich, 
who led. A kind of fury, born of fatigue and 
monotony, seized him sometimes as he watched the 
unwearying legs move before him, each, it seemed, 
with incredible deliberation, yet somehow with a 
composite speed that almost broke the watcher’s 
heart. It appeared to him as if the little trousered 
figure in front were lifted by the scruff of the neck, 
the legs would still move in the air like scissors 
driven by slow clockwork. . . . Behind Val 

came Tom Meredith, then the two Ratcliffes, then 
Austin, and last Armstrong. It was too big a party 
really for one rope, but the absence of all real danger 
excused the fact that they used no more. 

It is exceedingly difficult to diagnose accurately 
the psychological effect of a very long expedition, 
the greater part of which takes place on the edge of 
gigantic slopes and precipices, even though on a 
perfectly safe path, with death, that is to say, regard- 
ing the traveller steadily and continuously, although 
from a decent and respectful distance, for about four 
hours. It is foolish to say that only three yards 


120 


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separated these climbers from death, for a great 
many other things separated them as well — the 
rope for one thing, common prudence for another, 
the experienced vigilance of a man at either end 
of the rope for a third. Yet to an imaginative mind 
these things do not carry their proper weight, espe- 
cially if that mind is possessed by an exceedingly 
wearied boy of sixteen. . . . 

It would be quite untrue to say that Val had either 
shown or even felt the slightest lack of nerve. He 
had not. His first moment of tension had come at 
the crossing of the Bergschnmd in the ascent of the 
Theodulhorn. He had held his breath, as if for 
buoyancy, and clenched his teeth on his lower lip, 
as, staring in front yet perceiving the blue depths 
beneath him on either side, he had stepped swiftly 
over the irregular snow bridge that led across the 
chasm. But he had said not a word. But now he 
had looked down these even more terrifying gulfs 
for over four hours ; he had listened at the halting- 
places to a dry description — all the more effective 
because of its dryness — of the famous tragedy of 
the Matterhorn in which four out of its seven first 
conquerors had been killed on the way down, uttered 
by Mr. Armstrong in response to urgent requests 
from Austin and Val himself (the victims had “ slid 
on their backs,” it seemed, “with outstretched 
hands,” and one by one had dropped over the in- 


THE COWARD 


121 


calculable edge like pebbles) ; and he had naturally 
rehearsed to himself not less than five or six times 
the probable details of a fall, should he slip out of 
the rope or should the rope break on either side of 
him. In most places he would first roll about three 
yards, then he would drop to an unknown depth, 
bounce once or twice, and finally disappear into 
another gulf of which the bottom was the Gorner 
glacier, now so far below them as to render a party 
walking upon it practically invisible, even against 
the white glare, or perhaps he would “ slide with 
outstretched hands.” . . . 

He was appallingly tired too, as was but natural. 
That is to say (as the Judge had hinted on Monday 
night), all those external conventions and ideals 
which have not yet consolidated into character, 
were peeled off him, and there remained to carry 
him through just that bare naked self with which 
he had been born, hardly modified at all by his six- 
teen years of youth. . . . 

And now they faced the Matterhorn, or rather 
they stood beneath it, tiny negligible specks of life 
in the midst of a white and glaring death. Above 
them, up to the zenith it seemed, towered this 
monster, inconceivably huge and grim, cutting off 
half the visible universe — gigantic slopes of rock, 
ribbed with snow where snow could lie; vast hoi- 


1 22 


THE COWARD 


lows, half a mile across; cruel and overshelving 
spikes; and there, beneath them, was the great cup- 
like slope down which they must go, curving across 
it up on to the rocks again above the Hornli, which, 
like a watch-dog with his back turned to them, 
gazed out over the blue valley, leagues away, where 
out of sight beneath bastions and forests, lay toy- 
like Zermatt, safe and secure and flat. More than 
once, as the boy had considered this, a passionate 
spasm of envy of the more prudent travellers had 
shaken him. 

It was at the cup-like hollow immediately beneath 
that the boy now stared, suddenly conscious that 
this was going to be altogether different. 

It is hard to say why it affected him so pro- 
foundly ; possibly it was because there was no 
obvious path to follow, such as was suggested by 
the arete they had just traversed, possibly because 
Matterhorn towered so horribly over it — indeed it 
was the base of the Matterhorn itself that they 
were to cross. The dangers too were visible here. 
On the arete there was, at least, nothing threatening 
from above ; here there were incalculable slopes and 
rocks and ice-fields rising far up into the sky, form- 
ing the ice-wall that was to be traversed. The end 
of any who fell was here full in view, unhidden by 
a merciful edge; for, beneath this tilted saucer across 
which they must go, tumbled masses of ice, pro- 


THE COWARD 


123 


truded, cracked and lined with streaks of blue that 
marked vast openings into the bowels of the earth. 
It was exceedingly easy to reconstruct here imag- 
inatively the story of the tragedy. Should the whole 
party fall, or should a single member become de- 
tached, the precise details would probably be re- 
enacted ; they would “ slide with outstretched 
hands/’ not fast at first, but quite irresistibly, in- 
creasing their pace, till . . . 

It was at this moment that Armstrong observed 
that there must be no talking, as the vibration might 
loosen ice above them. 

“ And remember,” said Tom dispassionately, “ to 
keep axes above, not below ; and don’t lean too hare 
on them.” 

“ Wait a minute,” said Val. “ What am I to do 
if I slip?” 

“ You mustn’t slip.” 

“ But* . . . but if I do?” 

“ You mustn’t.” 

Val set his teeth in a kind of despair. 

Ulrich turned round, smiling and nodding. He 
wore heavy black glasses that gave him a grim, un- 
winking, and enigmatical appearance. He seemed 
to smile with his lips only. Then he lifted his axe, 
and cut a single step beneath him. 

“ V orwarts ! ” he exclaimed, and stepped over the 
low edge. 


124 


THE COWARD 


(n) 

It seemed to Austin, following patiently behind 
Jack Ratcliff e, that ice was not as difficult as he had 
been led to believe. . . . 

Imagine, again, a saucer steeply tilted, with its 
lower edge set on the top of a heap of ice and 
pebbles, ten times the height of the saucer. On the 
top of the saucer imagine a conical, irregular hillock, 
perhaps three yards high, with snow and pebbles 
lying on its sides. Now make the saucer about 
three-quarters of a mile across, with the rest of the 
setting magnified to scale, and compose it of solid 
ice, with drifted snow lying here and there; set a 
party crossing it from the high left to the low right, 
and you have a tolerable picture of our friends’ cir- 
cumstances. Further, one has to remember that 
the saucer is extremely irregular, that rocks jut out 
in a few places, and that the ice itself protrudes here 
and there in small cliffs and angles. 

It seemed to Austin, then, that the descent was 
not very difficult. It consisted, for him, in placing 
his feet carefully, one by one, in steps cut out by 
Ulrich in front. Each foot had to be set in the step 
very deliberately, since a bad slip would endanger 
the whole party; but there was plenty of time for 
this, as no one could move faster than Ulrich, who 
had to do the cutting. Austin, watching Jack in 


THE COWARD 


125 


front, imitated him scrupulously in the holding of 
his axe ; he grasped it very tightly with both hands, 
its head uppermost and on the left; he drove this in 
slightly, in advance of himself, before making a 
stride, and preserved his balance by leaning on it 
during the actual movement. 

It seemed to him not difficult, compared, let us 
say, with gymnastics. Yet, for all that, he was con- 
scious of a certain strain as the minutes went by. 
The taking of each step was, in itself, quite a simple 
matter, like catching a ball; but the catching of a 
ball five hundred times is considerably more than 
the mere total of five hundred risks taken separately. 
(As the lawyer had remarked three days before, two 
and two by no means always make four.) There 
was this, then, first : the consciousness that he must 
make no mistake in a simple operation repeated five 
hundred times. 

And there were other considerations as well. 
First, no two steps were exactly the same; and the 
stride between each was about two inches longer 
than he liked. They had been rather late in starting 
for their expedition, the sun had been a long while 
now upon this cradle of avalanches and Ulrich ob- 
viously thought it prudent not to take longer over 
step-cutting than was really necessary. In a few 
places where the snow was deep he cut no steps at 
all. Next, the contemplation of the steps above and 


126 


THE COWARD 


below undoubtedly had a certain psychological effect. 
They looked so extremely steep, the distances were 
so enormous, and the catastrophe of a fall so very 
obvious. It was like being constantly threatened by 
a blow which never fell. . . . And then the 

intellect chimed in and remarked insistently : 
“ Kindly remember that all this while you are on ice 
— ice. And ice is notoriously slippery. . . .” 

When all these considerations surged up in line to 
take the nerves by storm, and all in the dead silence 
that had been commanded, Austin thought it prudent 
to think about other things. 

Certainly there were many things to think about. 

He forced himself to notice the effect of sun on 
chipped ice — the indescribably luscious appearance 
of the crumbled diamonds, and he thought of long 
drinks in tall, clinking tumblers. He would have 
given five pounds for one. He had melted some 
snow into brandy and water at their last halt ; but it 
had burned his palate more than it had refreshed it. 
An extremely vivid image of the smoking-room at 
Medhurst, of the tray of syphons and ice and lemon- 
ade, floated before him. . . . 

He noticed the texture of Jack Ratcliff e’s stock- 
ing. It emerged, curved over a massive muscle, 
between a slightly crumpled yellow gaiter and the 
wet folds of a homespun knickerbocker. He 


THE COWARD 


127 


thought, somehow, that that kind of stocking came 
from Scotland; or was it Paisley? No, shawls 
came from Paisley. 

Then once or twice he considered Val, and won- 
dered how he was getting on, there in front. He 
caught a glimpse of his cap now and then, with a 
salmon-fly sticking up at the top. (He had mocked 
at the wearing of a salmon-fly in Switzerland.) 
Val seemed to be getting on all right. ... He 
had certainly been subdued by the row on Monday. 
He had talked very little to-day, and had been 
scrupulously obedient. . . . 

Then he had to take a longer step than usual. 
He hesitated a moment, then he drove his axe in 
with all his force, and jumped. (There was, at 
any rate, one perceptible instant in which neither 
foot rested on the ice.) He landed safely, and 
stood poised, conscious of a faint prickling on his 
upper lip and forehead. He found himself won- 
dering how Val had done it. He also discovered 
in himself an extraordinary desire to be on the 
rocks again, over there, half a mile across and 
down. 

They were now about a third of the way across 
the slope, and the tilt was more marked as well as 
the surface more broken. They had altered their 
course a little and were going more directly down- 
wards. At first he did not see why; but in the 


128 


THE COWARD 


pauses, while the others moved and he stood still, 
anchored by his axe, he presently noticed that the 
line was steering so as to pass beneath a mass of 
ice clustered about a rock that jutted out some way 
ahead. 

Then, as they drew nearer, step by step, he saw 
and understood. 

Right in the middle of their old course this mass 
of stuff projected, resembling a broken cliff some 
fifteen or twenty feet high, as if suddenly arrested 
in a downward movement. Above it lay piled 
snow and stones so high as to blot out, to the eyes 
of those who stood beneath it, all but the very top- 
most peak of the Matterhorn itself. It looked, to 
unskilled eyes, as if it were the crest of an ava- 
lanche suddenly pulled up sharp in full career. 
Beneath it, in a long precipitous curve, lay a deep 
channel of ice, smooth as glass, sloping down at a 
far more acute angle than that which they were 
traversing, losing itself perhaps three hundred feet 
below in the general slopes of the ice-wall. 

Austin had a minute or two to regard all this 
closely and carefully, as the procession in front had 
halted; and even he, little as he knew, understood 
that this was by far the most difficult passage that 
he had yet encountered; and, not only the most dif- 
ficult, but the most dangerous; and not only the 
most dangerous, but the most terrifying. 


THE COWARD 


129 


Let me explain again exactly why. 

Beneath the avalanche head (if it may be called 
so) there was a deep channel, like a gutter-pipe, 
at least fifteen feet deep and a good twenty yards 
across, and the whole of this, with the exception 
of the edges, was smooth and glassy ice. There 
were two possible ways to get across it. Either 
the channel itself must be negotiated, down across 
and up again, or the jutting cliff must be traversed. 
In the one case an ice- wall of extreme abruptness 
must be crossed; in the other, that same ice-wall, 
or rather channel, would be immediately beneath. 
And in both, a fall would be as serious as 
possible. . . . 

He wondered why they were waiting. Jack Rat- 
cliffe in front stood like a pillar, both feet in the 
step, anchored to the slope above him by his axe; 
beyond him Jim, also motionless. Beyond he could 
make out Tom Meredith’s head and left shoulder. 
All were motionless. He could hear Armstrong 
whispering to himself and fidgeting behind. Obvi- 
ously Ulrich was reconnoitring as to which of the 
two courses were the safer. Austin could hear the 
chipping of an axe in front. 

Then a decision was apparently arrived at, and 
Austin drew a breath of relief. (Anything was 
better than this waiting.) For he suddenly saw 


130 


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the bearded face of the guide in profile turn to the 
left and his broad shoulders follow it. They were 
going to cross the cliff. 

The slope was so acute that he could see no more 
of Ulrich than down to the knees; but all that he 
could see was active and alert. He stood facing 
the edge of the cliff, hacking at it in vast strokes; 
and between the strokes the clear tinkle and clash 
of the fragments of ice sounded in the channel be- 
low. Then, suddenly, his whole figure appeared, 
swift as a spider as he rose on to the wide step he 
had made; and again came the clash of the axe as 
he attacked the next point. . . . 

Austin began to observe more closely the prob- 
able course that would be taken. 

First there was the big hummock of ice on which 
Ulrich was now standing. It would take perhaps 
four steps to cross this. Then, from where he was 
now standing, all that he could see was a tall edge 
of rock, leaning forward over the channel beneath; 
and it was either under or over this rock that they 
would have to go. He had seen, however, just 
before that there was ice again beyond this, before 
the ordinary slopes could be reached. . . . 

He watched Ulrich in a kind of dream, as the 
guide slowly mounted the hummock; and he saw, 
too, Val presently pass up to the left to allow more 
rope-room for the leader. The boy stood quite 


THE COWARD 


131 

motionless, his head down, visible as the guide had 
been just before, from his knees upwards. The 
rest of the party remained in their steps. 

Then Ulrich turned round and beckoned, leaning 
his axe against the rock, and gathering up the rope 
in both hands. He made a vivid little picture as 
he stood there, his legs wide apart, his eager bird- 
like face bent down, and his whole outline standing 
out sharp and distinct against the blazing slopes 
behind. 

Then Val mounted, driving his axe above him; 
and, simultaneously, Tom Meredith followed to the 
vacated place, and Austin prepared to go forward. 
He heard Mr. Armstrong shifting his axe behind. 

When Austin himself at last arrived at the foot 
of the hummock, and was turning to look down at 
the treacherous channel that sloped away to the 
right, he heard a sharp whisper in German from 
Mr. Armstrong, who had followed him step by 
step, and saw Ulrich’s face peering over the shoul- 
ders of the three who were now mounted on the 
hummock. 

There was a short dialogue, all in whispers be- 
tween the two. Ulrich nodded once or twice, and 
then disappeared again. 

“ Look here, you fellows,” whispered Armstrong 
from below. “ We’ve got to jump. Val, you’re 


132 


THE COWARD 


the first. Watch Ulrich closely. Put your feet 
where he does, and jump when he tells you. The 
rest hold on tight. We mustn’t have any mistake 
here. . . . Wait a second. And let no one 

move till the word’s given.” 

He waved Austin aside, and came past him with 
extraordinary agility in so heavy a man. He in- 
sinuated himself right against the side of the jutting 
cliff, chipped out a couple of heel-holes, and then 
braced himself in his place, holding the rope in both 
hands. Austin understood that this was done in 
case the party fell. But it still seemed incredible to 
the young man that such a jump could be 
made. . . . 

“ Now then,” the other whispered sharply. 
“ Brace yourself tight. ... Go on, Jack.” 

From where Austin crouched, beneath the hum- 
mock, holding on firmly with his axe, with both 
heels together in a crack of ice, he could hear the 
preparations being made overhead, and a whisper 
or two. 

The situation was pretty plain. 

Beyond the jutting rock wall were (as he remem- 
bered having seen from further up the slope) 
hummocks of ice corresponding to these on this side. 
Now the rock was at least perpendicular, and so 
worn with ice and snow as to afford no foot or 
handhold; and it ran down, moreover, sheer on to 


THE COWARD 


133 


the ice channel beneath. Of course two other ways 
over were conceivable. Either the channel itself 
might have been traversed, or a way, perhaps, found 
somewhere far overhead. But it was the middle 
course that had been chosen, and this involved, 
apparently, a jump. This jump must, obviously, be 
formidable. It would mean leaping from the ice 
hummock on this side, past the rock, and alighting 
on the ice on the other side. And there would be 
the cheering view of glassy ice channel, seen at a 
very acute angle beneath. . . . Well, he sup- 
posed it was all right. . . . He found a certain 

difficulty in swallowing, and he tried to moisten his 
lips. . . . How lovely the valley looked right 

down there beneath him, beyond the snow. . . . 

Then Ulrich jumped. 

There was a stir in the figures above him as each 
gripped himself into his place in case of a slip; 
but the sound of the alighting feet came sharp and 
clear without the hint even of a scramble. 

Austin could see nothing of the proceedings at 
all. He was observing with great attention Jack 
Ratcliffe’s boots, that were planted on the ice not a 
foot away from his own head. 

“ Wait a second, Val,” came a sharp whisper, 
which Austin recognised as Tom’s. “ Ulrich’s not 
ready. . . . Now then. . . 


134 


THE COWARD 


There was a pause. 

“ Axe-head to the left. . . . Both feet to- 
gether. . . . Good Lord? . . 

Austin waited. 

“Go on . . . go on . . whispered 

Mr. Armstrong’s voice, as if to himself. 

Austin waited. What an enormous time Val 
seemed to be. . . . 

Then, without warning, the man beside him 
sprang upright, and without a word of apology, 
pushed abruptly by him and scrambled on to the 
first step of the hummock. 

“ Will you ” he began in a fierce whisper. 

But there came an interruption. 

Suddenly, without the faintest warning, without 
even an attempt at a whisper, there rose up a wail- 
ing, miserable cry which, for the first moment, Aus- 
tin could not believe was the voice of Val. 

“ I can’t ! I can’t,” wailed the voice. “ It’s no 
good. I can’t. It’s too far. I can’t. . . . 

Oh ” 

“ Val ! Jump at once ! Don’t be an ass ! ” came 
the sharp order, from immediately over Austin’s 
head. 

“ My good chap ” began a remonstrative 

whisper from Tom. - 

“ Leave him to me, sir,” came the sharp, impera- 


THE COWARD 


135 


tive voice again. “ Stand up, Val. I’m ashamed 
of you. . . . Now will you jump? I shall tell 

Ulrich to pull you if you don’t.” 

“ I can’t. ... I can’t. . . . No! No, 

don’t.” 

It seemed to Austin as an incredible dream. 
Nothing seemed real, except the biting snow into 
which his fingers were clenched, and the gaitered 
legs of the man who stood now in Tom’s place 

. . the tiny details within the immediate 
reach of his senses. . . . 

Then the gaitered legs scrambled fiercely and 
violently. There was a movement overhead as the 
others shifted to let him come by, and then again 
the ruthless voice began. 

“ Do you want to be kicked over it, sir ? . . . 

I swear I’ll kick you over it if you don’t jump. 
. . . Stand up, I tell you. . . . Don’t 
crouch there. . . . Now jump. . . .” 

Again there was silence. 

It seemed to Austin afterwards as if at least half 
an hour had passed before the party came back, first 
Mr. Armstrong, white and furious, swinging him- 
self down from the hummock as if wholly reckless; 
then the three friends, with faces at once quiet and 
excited; and finally Val . . . Val looking like 


136 


THE COWARD 


someone else. A trail of rope came after him; it 
caught somewhere as he climbed, shaking all over, 
down on to the slope. Austin, without a word, 
jerked it clear. 

But it could not have been more than ten min- 
utes. 

Ulrich had joined in once or twice, his German 
sounding more impossibly unintelligible than usual 
from beyond the rock behind which he stood; and 
the miserable talk had become at last a dialogue 
between the Secretary and the guide. Then there 
had been movements and shif tings overhead. 
Then, it seemed, Ulrich had unroped, as it was im- 
possible for him to get back to the rest. 

Austin laid a hand on Tom’s arm, as he went 
past him. 

“ What are we going to do? ” he whispered. 

Tom jerked his head upwards. There were 
many emotions in his eyes. . . . 

“ Armstrong’s going to take us over the top,” he 
said. 


(m) 

“ Some people are just made that way,” said 
Armstrong genially. “ I don’t know that you can 
blame them. It’s just nervous weakness.” 

It was a depressing little council of three that 


THE COWARD 


137 


was gathered the same night in the Merediths’ sit- 
ting-room — the two Meredith parents and the Sec- 
retary. 

The climbing party had got back just in time for 
table d'hote; they had been delayed contrary to 
expectation by the unfortunate little incident; but 
the rest of the expedition had gone well. They had 
been obliged to return on their track a certain 
distance, and to strike higher up over the top of the 
obstacle which had proved too much for Val’s 
nerves; and here Ulrich, climbing back alone, had 
met them and reunited himself to the rope. From 
that point onwards the party had gone with speed 
and security, had struck the path above Hornli, and 
the rest had been simple. 

“But it was just funk — the Philistine would 
say,” observed the lawyer with the cool, detached 
voice known so well to the clients of the other side. 
“ And I gather you told him so.” 

“ Certainly I told him so when it might have been 
of use. Sometimes a sense of acute shame will 
overcome the nervous fear. I’ve known that hap- 
pen.” 

The other looked up, flicking the ash from his 
cigar. 

“Oh! you’ve known it happen before?” 

“ I’ve seen it four times altogether. In two in- 


i3« 


THE COWARD 


stances the man overcame it almost at once — when 
. . . when it was put to him plainly. The 
third case was a woman who went into hysterics, 
and had to be dragged up a bad bit like a sack of 
coals. And the fourth case failed.” 

“What happened?” 

“ Well, it got as far as kicking him. There was 
real danger, you understand, to ‘the whole party ; 
and there was no other way round.” 

“ But it failed, you say ? ” 

“ It did. We spent the night on the rocks, and 
came down at our leisure.” 

“ Why didn’t you kick Val?” 

The Secretary paused. 

“ I couldn’t,” he said briefly ; “ though I very 
nearly did. But he looked at me so wretch- 
edly. . . . Besides, there was another way 

round, you see.” 

There was a pause, and Mrs. Meredith resumed 
her knitting. 

It had been an exceedingly unpleasant business, 
breaking it to those two. Armstrong only thanked 
his stars that they were not the boys’ parents; but 
it was quite bad enough. 

It had been obvious at dinner that something had 
gone very wrong indeed. Austin had appeared, 
silent and morose, ten minutes after the rest. Tom 


THE COWARD 


T 39 


had refused to say anything at all except that they 
had to retrace their steps at one point; and Val had 
not appeared at all until dinner was ending. It 
seemed that he had been having a hot bath and that 
he hadn’t been able to get any hot water for a long 
time. 

The Secretary, viewing this scene from across the 
room, had determined on solving the intolerable 
situation as soon as possible, and, with infinite guile, 
had caused a note to be placed in Mr. Meredith’s 
hands as he left the table. And so, here they were. 

“ I gather that you talked to the boy on the way 
back ? ” 

“Yes; he had fallen behind the rest, after the 
Hornli ; so I broke a bootlace and caught him.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Perhaps I was weak,” said the other medi- 
tatively, getting out his pouch. “Of course I made 
it perfectly clear that there must be no more big 
expeditions, but, for the rest, I let him down as 
easily as I could. Besides, I really believed what I 
said.” 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“ I told him not to blame himself. I said that 
there were some people who simply had not the head 
for climbing. There was a V.C. I knew who 
turned green in the face when he looked down a 


140 


THE COWARD 


precipice. And I said that I was very sorry for his 
disappointment, but that he must reckon himself 
one of those.” 

“ Well?” 

“ He seemed enormously cheered,” said the other 
rather drily, after a good blow down his pipe. 
(“By the way, may I smoke a pipe down here?) 
Enormously cheered. He’s an emotional chap 
. . . and I’m very sorry for him,” he added 
emphatically. 

“ Do you believe one word you’ve been saying? ” 
asked the lawyer delicately. 

The other laughed outright. 

“ Well, I do, you know. At least, I believe it’s 
perfectly true of a great many people. It’s the 
people on the border-line I’m doubtful about — 
the people, I mean, who honestly haven’t got very 
good heads, and with whom it’s just touch and go 
whether their will is master or not.” 

“ And Val’s one of them ? ” 

“ I’ve got no right to assume that. Remember, 
he was actually rash the last time he went out. It 
may very well have been that the bit to-day really 
was too much for his head, and that no amount of 
resolution could have got him over.” 

“ And was it a really dangerous bit ? ” 

“ It was what I should call a nasty bit. Per- 
fectly safe, you know, if you did the right thing; 


THE COWARD 


141 

and entirely within the power of every one of the 
party.” 

“ Describe it.” 

“ Well,” went on the Secretary, drawing at his 
pipe, “ it was a ten- foot jump, and downwards. 
There was a good take off, and a good landing. 
The only nasty thing was the rock. It looked as 
if one might hit against it. On the other hand, 
there was the rope. I shouldn’t blame a man for 
missing his foothold; but then, you see, we were 
all roped. At the worst one would have got a bang 
or two.” 

“ It was, honestly, within the boy’s power?” 

The other looked up for a sharp instant. 

“ I shouldn’t have asked him to jump if it hadn’t 
been,” he said quietly. “ It certainly was within 
his physical power. But it seems not to have been 
within his moral power.” 

The lawyer got up and went to the table. 

“ Well,” he said, taking the stopper out of the 
decanter, “ say when.” 

(IV) 

Austin went up to bed that night with a queer 
mixture of feeling?, in which vicarious shame, a 
sort of compassion, and a faint element of triumph 
were discernible in turns. It was his Meddity, so 
to say, that was responsible for the first, and his 


142 


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humanity for the second, and he would scarcely 
have been an earthly elder brother if the third ele- 
ment had been wholly wanting. 

He had had ample time to arrange his attitude 
by now ; for he had not exchanged five words with 
Val since the catastrophe. The walk back had 
been as Mr. Armstrong had described it; and as 
soon as they got upstairs Val had whisked in, 
snatched a bath-towel, and vanished again till the 
end of dinner. And, ever since, Austin had sat 
with Tom and the Ratcliff es in august conclave on 
the terrace to discuss the Matterhorn, and the ques- 
tion as to how Val had best be told that he mustn’t 
come with them. Once Austin had seen his brother 
pass across a lighted window, and later he had 
heard his voice from another group at the other end 
of the terrace. 

The attitude he had determined on is best de- 
scribed as falling under the “ Poor-old-chap ” 
category. He proposed to be extremely magnani- 
mous, to assign Val’s deplorable exhibition to 
merely physical causes, and so to lead up to the 
delicate conclusion with regard to the Matterhorn. 
For this, on the whole, had been the attitude of 
the Ratcliffes. They too had described, as out 
of the experience of years, parallel cases to Val’s; 
they too had advanced the very same instance of 
the V.C. who could not look over a precipice. 


THE COWARD 


x 43 


Tom had been more silent; he had smoked a great 
deal and said very little. Once, when Austin ap- 
pealed to him, he had assented politely and shortly 
to the effect that the “ physical-nerve thing ” was 
by far the most probable. In short, it had been 
an exceedingly charitable, if slightly superior con- 
versation; and it was this precise blend of charity 
and superiority, warmed up by a bottle of fizzy 
wine, that Austin carried him into the large, white, 
bare room, lit by electricity, where he and his 
brother slept. 

Val was already in bed, deep in a Tauchnitz 
volume, as Austin had been a few nights before, 
lying on his back with the book held above him. 
He gave a brotherly murmur of greeting and con- 
tinued to read. Then, as Austin finished his pray- 
ers and stood up to disrobe, Val shut the book 
sharply enough to attract attention, made some- 
what of a commotion as he snuggled down into 
the bedclothes, and took up his parable in a loud 
and cheerful voice. 

“ I say, Austin, what an ass I made of myself 
to-day ! ” 

“ Oh ! well ” began the other, taken by sur- 

prise. But there was no need to make any com- 
ment. Val proceeded, with almost a suspicious 
rapidity, to lay the case open. 


144 


THE COWARD 


“ Yes, a real ass of myself. I’m jolly ashamed. 
And I’ve had a good talk to Armstrong; and he 
quite agrees I mustn’t try the Matterhorn, after 
all. He tells me he’s known other people just the 
same. There was a V.C. who couldn’t look over 
a precipice without turning green. . . . I’m 

beastly sorry, old chap, for having made such an 
ass of myself. I oughtn’t to have tried it at all. 
But, you know, I couldn’t tell without trying as 
to whether my head would stand it or not. And 
it seems it won’t. So there’s an end of it.” 

Austin was conscious of a sudden and violent 
wave of irritation. This was precisely what he 
had intended to say himself; yet it seemed as if 
his compassion left him wholly as soon as Val said 
it. He folded his dress- jacket carefully on the 
chair and laid his waistcoat on the top. 

“ I shall envy you frightfully, old chap, when you 
do the Matterhorn. But Armstrong quite agrees 
with me that I mustn’t even attempt it.” 

“ So did we this evening downstairs,” said 
Austin cruelly. 

“We? Who?” 

“ Tom and the Ratcliffes and myself.” 

He heard Val swallow in his throat. But the 
boy went on gallantly. 

“ Ah ! I thought you must be talking about that,” 
he said. “Of course, it’s the only possible thing 


THE COWARD 


145 


to do. I’m frightfully sick at the thought of it 
. . . after coming out here on purpose. But 
you do agree, don’t you, that I’d better not try?” 

Austin slipped off his trousers and turned for 
his pyjamas. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ It’s a pity you didn’t find 
out before to-day.” 

Again there was that slight pause, and again the 
boy kept up his pose magnificently. 

“ I know,” he said. “ But I couldn’t tell before 
trying a really bad place ; and ” 

“ Tom says it wasn’t really bad at all. There 
was no danger, you know.” 

Val laughed; and even unperceptive Austin rec- 
ognised that the laughter came from the throat, 
not the heart. 

“Well, it was bad enough for me, anyhow. It 
looked bad; and that’s the thing, Armstrong says, 
that matters if you haven’t got the climbing head.” 

Austin got into bed and drew the clothes to his 
chin. 

“ Yes, I suppose so. . . . Do you mind put- 

ting the light out? I want to go to sleep.” 

The switch was beside Val’s bed, and the light 
went out with astounding promptness. 

“ I say, Austin ; do you want to go to sleep at 
once ? ” 


Yes.” 


146 


THE COWARD 


“ I wish you’d talk ” began the voice, with 

ever so slight a quaver, out of the darkness. 

“ My good chap, there’ll be plenty of time to talk 
to-morrow. . . . Good night.” 

There was silence. 

“ Good night,” said Austin again, seized with 
compunction. 

Again there was silence. 

“ Sulky brute,” said Austin to himself beneath 
the bedclothes. He felt he wanted a little re- 
assurance. 

Once in the night he woke, wide awake in an 
instant, from a savagely vivid dream of enormous 
white toppling peaks and cavernous green ice, and 
turned over in bed. Then he listened for Val’s 
breathing. There was none; and he knew with an 
intuition, of which there was no questioning, that 
the boy was lying awake too, in an agony of self- 
contempt and misery. He knew, in those few 
minutes in which he was too proud and self- 
righteous to speak, that he had known all along that 
Val’s pose was no more than a pose — a pose 
snatched at and gripped, since self-respect stood or 
fell with it. Yet he did not speak. He told him- 
self that it was good for his younger brother to 
be humiliated for once; perhaps he wouldn’t be so 


THE COWARD 


147 

complacent after this. So he said nothing, and 
presently was asleep again. 

When he awoke again, not only was it broad 
day, but Val was gone. 

When he was dressed he went to the window; 
and there, in the sunlight on the terrace, was Val, 
talking eagerly, and, it seemed, even eloquently, 
to Tom and the two Ratcliffes. And at that sight 
his heart hardened again. 

As he went past Val’s bed to get to the door, 
something about the smoothness of the pillow at- 
tracted his attention. Obviously Val had turned 
it over for some reason. So Austin turned it 
back, and the pillow was moist on the lower side. 
He looked at it a minute or two. Then he turned 
it carefully back and went down to breakfast. 


CHAPTER VIII 


(i) 

44V7' OU see I just hadn’t the head for it,” ex- 
A plained Val for the tenth time — this time 
to his mother — with an air of mingled ease and 
humility that increased on every occasion. “ Arm- 
strong said” — (and there followed da capo the 
Tale of the Green-faced Officer.) 

Home-coming had not been the triumph that Val 
had expected; and what triumph there was rested 
wholly upon Austin, who had, actually, climbed the 
Matterhorn and acquitted himself with credit. The 
brothers had not talked much one to the other on 
the way: Val had read Tauchnitz volumes a great 
deal with a studiously interested air; and Austin 
had spent most of his time in low-voiced conversa- 
tion with Tom. At Dover they had parted from the 
Merediths, and thenceforward the silence between 
the two had been even more marked. And now 
they were at home again, eating a late supper. 
Their mother and May sat with them in the dining- 
room, listening to the tale of adventure; the General 
and Miss Deverell, it was understood, were play- 
148 


THE COWARD 


149 


mg backgammon in the hall. Gertie, Val had 
learned within ten minutes of his arrival, without 
mentioning her name, had gone home a week 
earlier, after all. 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Lady Beatrice. 

“ Hard lines,” said May. 

“ Tell us about the Matterhorn,” said Lady 
Beatrice, turning to Austin. 

It was really rather trying for Val to have to sit 
through the next twenty minutes. Austin became 
unusually excited — he had eaten and drunk well — 
and before long was piling a salt-cellar on to a silver 
mug and a pepper-pot on to the salt-cellar in order 
to make absolutely clear the nature of the perform- 
ance he had achieved. It was up this slope that the 
work had been hardest; it was round this corner 
that the wind had suddenly met them ; it was from 
the angle of the salt-cellar nearest to May that they 
had seen the clouds clear and Zermatt show itself 
like a group of pebbles on a billiard-table. Then, 
as the party approached the final summit, Austin 
demonstrated too vividly, and the entire Matterhorn 
fell on to the tablecloth, pouring salt in one direc- 
tion and pepper in the other. Val emitted a 
single syllable of bitter merriment and Austin 
glanced up at him, frowning. 


THE COWARD 


150 

“ I see perfectly,” cried Lady Beatrice, with an 
excellent enthusiasm. “No; don’t bother to put 
them up again : that’s one of the Queen Anne salts, 
you know.” 

“Well, you see, don’t you?” said Austin. “It 
was round that curve I was just touching that the 
last slope lies. Then you only have a couple of 
hundred yards, and you’re at the top.” 

“ Oh, how gorgeous ! ” sighed May, who had 
sat propping her chin on her hands and staring 
fascinated. “Oh, Val; if only you’d been there 
too!” 

Val put his last piece of pudding into his mouth 
and said nothing. 

“ What’s that, Austin ? ” cried May again, as the 
elder boy, after fumbling in his breast pocket, 
brought out two flat, grey pebbles and laid them 
solemnly on the cloth. 

“ These are the two stones I’ve got left from the 
top of the Matterhorn,” he said impressively. 
“ May, would you like one ? or would you have it, 
mother ? ” 

“ Let May have it,” said his mother, smiling. 

“Oh, Austin! Really?” 

Austin with a tremendous air pushed over the 
larger of the two stones toward his sister. 

“ Take it, May,” he said. 


THE COWARD 


151 

Val felt his heart growing, apparently, more and 
more contracted during all this. It was far more 
trying even than he had anticipated, to assist at 
these grave ceremonies and descriptions. He had, 
with eager prudence, established first his own im- 
peccability: and he had made it so clear to every- 
one else that nothing except an unfortunate physical 
defect had stood between him and the summit of the 
Matterhorn, that he was really almost beginning to 
believe it himself. But this hero-worship seemed 
to him intolerable. He was absolutely certain that 
Austin had not really the same climbing powers and 
general fortitude as himself — there was the serac 
incident to prove it; and it appeared to him that 
he was very deeply misunderstood. . . . 

“ I say, Austin ; do you remember the time I got 
into such a row on the glacier ? ” 

“ What was that? ” asked May eagerly. 

Val emptied his glass. 

“ Oh ! nothing much. We were out on the 
glacier; and while the others were putting on the 
rope I went on ahead. My word ! Old Arm- 
strong did let me have it ! ” 

“ Was it dangerous? ” 

“ It didn’t seem to me so. Armstrong seemed to 
think it was. . . . Yes: I suppose it was, 
rather. It was the top of an ice-peak, you 


152 


THE COWARD 


know, — on the glacier; with crevasses all round.” 

Austin laughed sardonically. Val went on 
superbly : 

“ Of course I oughtn’t to have done it. I was 
awfully ashamed of myself afterwards. But I 
didn’t know it was dangerous at the time, I sup- 
pose.” 

“Oh, Val!” cried May. 

“ Well, if you boys have finished, let’s go and 
tell your father all about it,” said Lady Beatrice, 
reaching for her stick. “ He’ll want to hear.” 

Val sat apart a little, while the entire story was 
told again, edited for fathers. Names of peaks, for 
example, had to be mentioned with some partic- 
ularity; and the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Mere- 
dith had to be referred to once or twice. (It is 
quite extraordinarily instructive to hear the same 
story recounted to a father and a mother re- 
spectively.) But Val felt more content, at least 
superficially. He had drawn general attention to 
himself just now in the dining-room, and had 
established a reputation for individual daring, to 
compensate for his physical weakness. 

The General leaned back from his backgammon 
board to listen. Both boys had to talk, but Austin 
presently held the field, and the ascent of the Mat- 
terhorn was once more exhaustively described, 


THE COWARD 


153 

from the start made at the Schwarz-See to the 
return to the Riffelhorn the following evening. 
Austin rolled out with great fluency the names of 
the principal peaks that could be viewed from the 
summit. . . . 

“ And you, Val,” said the old gentleman pres- 
ently. “ I don’t understand why you didn’t go 
too.” 

Val licked his lips for another effort. 

“ I found I had a bad head, father,” he said. “ I 
couldn’t be sure of myself. Mr. Armstrong ad- 
vised me not to go; he said he knew a man once, 
who had the V.C., who ” 

“Pooh! That’s nothing. You could have got 
over it.” 

“ Well, I thought it better to do what Arm- 
strong ” 

“ Yes, yes,” said his father, with a touch of im- 
patience. 

“ Val wanted to go very much,” said Austin 
generously, “ but we all — I mean the Merediths 
and Armstrong and the Ratcliffes all thought it 
would be better not.” 

The General was silent. 

“ Well, you’ve had a good time, boys, haven’t 
you ? That’s right,” he said suddenly. “ Miss 
Deverell, I think we must leave the game for to- 
night. It’s getting late.” 


154 


THE COWARD 


(n) 

Val preceded Austin upstairs, once more trem- 
bling with resentment and shame. His father had 
taken so exactly the wrong line and thrown him 
again on guard. If only the boy could have pro- 
duced the conviction in everyone else that he had 
behaved on the whole with a right prudence and 
with no lack of courage, it would have been so 
infinitely easier to have established that conviction 
in himself too. Yet his anger partly reassured him 
as well; it was so necessary to ward off external 
attacks that at present he had no energy to turn 
inwards and learn what he really himself believed. 

As he came into his room, an old figure in cap 
and apron straightened itself from over the fire. 

“ Eh-h ! ” she cried, with upraised hands. 

Val kissed the old nurse mechanically. 

“ I’ve been warming your pyjamas,” proceeded 
Benty, “ and to-morrow morning I’m coming in to 
know what you’ll take with you to Eton.” 

“ Oh! I can’t be bothered,” snapped Val. 

“ But you go on Friday afternoon!” exclaimed 
Benty in dismay. 

“ Pack what you like. I don’t care. I must go 
to bed. I’m tired.” 

Benty regarded him a moment in deep disap- 
pointment. She had expected him to be so pleased 


THE COWARD 


155 


to see her; and she had rehearsed to herself with 
such expectancy the solemn consultation that would 
take place next morning, as to whether the old yel- 
low socks were to go in his portmanteau as well 
as the new blue ones, and as to whether Master Val 
wouldn’t let her order him a dozen new shirts — 
the cuffs of the old ones were beginning to fray. 
She had looked them all over in her room this after- 
noon. 

“ Then I must speak to your mamma,” she said 
at last, with a distinct and unusual lack of tact. 

“ Don’t bother me, Benty,” said Val, sitting 
heavily down on his bed and beginning to untie his 
shoes. “ Can’t you see I’m dog-tired ? ” 

Then her dignity melted. 

“ Eh ! then ; go to bed, like a good boy.” 

“ Good night, Benty.” 

He lifted his face to kiss her. 

Just before he got into bed he remembered he 
hadn’t got a book to read, so he put on his slippers 
and went out into the sitting-room. As he knelt by 
the low bookcase Austin came in. 

“ Hullo ! ” said Austin. 

“ Hullo!” said Val. 

Austin pottered about for a few minutes, setting a 
couple of guide-books to Switzerland in his own 
private shelf, opening a couple of letters that were 


THE COWARD 


156 

lying on his table, warming his hands at the fire, 
and finally placing with an exaggerated care (as 
Val, pretending to look for a book, noticed per- 
fectly well), his grey stone from the top of the 
Matterhorn under a glasscase that already sheltered 
a fives cup. 

“ I say, Val.” 

“ Well.” 

“ I’ve put my stone here. Don’t move it, will 
you? I’m going to label it to-morrow.” 

“ I don’t want to move it,” snapped Val. 

Austin preserved an offensive silence. Presently 
he took off his shoes, sat down in an easy chair, 
and prepared to read. 

“ Good night,” he said, as Val went to the door 
at last with a suitable book. (It dealt neither with 
riding nor climbing.) 

“ ’Night,” grunted Val, shutting the door upon 
the word. 

“ Sulky brute,” murmured Austin to himself 
aloud for his own satisfaction. 

Austin was marvellously well pleased with him- 
self to-night. He had come back, after a really 
notable achievement, considering his few years and 
his short experience, and had found himself en- 
tirely appreciated. His mother had been attentive 
and admirative; May had been ecstatic; his father 


THE COWARD 


157 


had been attentive and even respectful. Above 
all, Val had been obliged definitely to take second 
place. Of course it was only right that he should 
do so, but Val did not appear usually over-ready 
to recognise the obligation. But now there was no 
doubt at all about it. Austin had climbed the 
Matterhorn; Val had not. And Austin under- 
stood perfectly the desperate wriggle Val had made 
to get back into the middle of the stage by his 
reference to the serac incident, and that he knew, 
and that Austin himself knew, and that Val knew 
that Austin knew that it had not been really suc- 
cessful. Everyone knew the name of the Matter- 
horn; the serac had none to be known. * Besides, 
obviously, Val’s treasury of self-respect must have 
run pretty low if he was forced to draw upon a 
discreditable incident to restore his credit. 

No, the thing was settled now. He had scored 
one; he had acted like a real elder brother; he had 
done what the younger could not; and he had 
actually been so evidently in advance as to be able 
to afford a generous remark just now, down in the 
hall. 

So Austin sat and read, till his toes tingled and 
his head swam with sleep. Then he proceeded to 
his bedroom with the air of Tired Warrior, and 
went solemnly to bed. 


158 


THE COWARD 


(hi) 

Twenty minutes later the door of Val’s room 
opened cautiously. Nothing else happened at all 
for a full twenty seconds. Then, without a sound, 
Val himself, in blue pyjamas and with bare feet, 
with a candle in his hand, appeared rigid as a ghost, 
listening. No sound at all met his ears. Then he 
advanced down the passage, stopping to listen at 
Austin’s door and to peer for any sign of light. 
Then once more he advanced, pushed open the door 
of the sitting-room, and went in, still with a noise- 
less and rigid carriage. He had come to look again 
at the grey stone under the glass dome: nothing 
else. 

The moment he had seen it downstairs in the 
dining-room, he had perceived that it would become 
for him a symbol for ever. It was an outward and 
visible sign of an inward and spiritual disgrace. 
He hated with an extraordinary intensity of feeling, 
even while he adored it. It had actually lain on the 
summit of the Matterhorn and had been borne 
thence by human hands; but the hatefulness of it 
lay in the fact that it had been his brother’s hands, 
when it might have been his own. If anyone else 
had brought it down he would have asked for a 
splinter from it. Since it was Austin he would 


THE COWARD 


159 


have wished to annihilate it. An added touch of 
bitterness lay in Austin’s not confiding in him be- 
fore that there was such a stone in existence. They 
had talked together of many things since the as- 
cent; yet Austin had for the first time produced it 
at the dramatic moment in the dining-room when 
the Family incense was going up in fragrance about 
the hero. ... It was intolerable. Yet he 
must look at it again. 

There, then, it lay, leaning on the blue velvet 
and just touching the silver cup. It was a split- 
looking fragment that had scaled off from its parent 
rock : it was grey in colour, with sparkling points 
in it, as of mica or quartz. It must have lain there 
on the stormy top from the earliest dawn of time 
— rent, perhaps, centuries ago, from the mass of 
which it had once formed a part, by the stroke of 
lightning. 

He stared at it, fascinated. . . . 

Ah! if it had been his own; and it might have 
been. Already, since he had seen it an hour ago, 
he had made his supposititious plans. He would 
have mounted it on a wooden pedestal, with a small 
brass plate let into it, protected by a glass dome, 
and . . . and presented the whole affair to 

Gertie, with a few properly self-depreciatory re- 


i6o 


THE COWARD 


marks. He moved the candle this way and that, 
and the sparkling surface rippled with points of 
light as the flame moved. 

Then he thought he must touch and hold the 
hateful, admirable thing. 

Very carefully he set the bell-glass on one side, 
putting his candle in a safe place, and took up the 
stone. He felt its texture, its sharp edges, its 
angles. It weighed perhaps three or four ounces, 
no more. 

Then he began to dream again. The dying fire 
was pleasant to his legs; the woolly matter to his 
bare feet. And he began to picture again exactly 
the sort of mounting he would have had made for 
it — just an unpolished block of old oak, appropriate 
to the age and rugged history of the stone ; a light 
blue velvet socket and fringe to the stand; and a 
small brass plate, inscribed “ V. M. to G. M.” — 
no more. G. M. would have had it on her writing- 
table, always ; it would have been a reminder to her 
of the prowess and gallantry of V. M. 

Ah! and it was not hers, and never could be. 
It was the property of Austin — his property by 
every claim, the pledge of his courage and fortitude ; 
and Austin lay snoring next door, to awake again 
to-morrow to his inalienable rights over it. 

Val’s eyes wandered round the room. Those 


THE COWARD 


161 


cups on the mantelpiece were Austin’s; those hare- 
pads and masks on the brown shields were his ; this 
copy of Pop Rules in light blue ribbon was his. 
And now this eloquent piece of stone was his. And 
Val? . . . Well, that single cup was his on 

the corner of the group by Hills and Saunders, and 
the small silver egg-cup under glass on the top of 
the bureau was his — he had won it as junior 
partner in house-fives two years ago. And that was 
absolutely all, of everything that mattered. 

He stared down at the scrap of stone again, 
miserable and depressed. Why should Austin have 
everything, and he nothing? — everything, down 
even to this final symbol of the elder brother’s 
fortitude and the younger’s weakness? And it 
might have been his ... it might have been 
his. 

Then with a sudden spasm of rage he dashed the 
stone into the sofa-cushions, and stood trembling. 



PART II 










CHAPTER I 


(i) 

a lVTY ^ ear sa ^ Val tranquilly, and with 

^ A an air of extraordinary experience, “ apart 
from exceptional cases and circumstances, men are 
infinitely braver than women. There’s nothing to 
be ashamed of, I assure you. Women aren’t meant 
to be brave. They’ve . . . they’ve got other 

advantages instead,” he ended vaguely. 

Val and Gertrude Marjoribanks, in the old school- 
room upstairs after tea, were discussing women’s 
rights ; and it was rapidly becoming an enumeration 
of masculine and feminine virtues, with a complete 
dissatisfaction to both sides. 

“ What advantages ? ” asked Gertrude, slightly 
flushed with argument. And Val, compelled to be 
precise, began to explain. 

Val had grown up with great rapidity during the 
past three years, and had entirely fulfilled his rather 
hobbledehoyish promise. He had become, in fact, 
an exceedingly pleasant-looking young man — 
though with the Medd nose and chin always in 

165 


THE COWARD 


1 66 

evidence. These redeemed his face, however, from 
the ordinariness of young men of nineteen, and 
with his clean-shaven lips, his brown eyes, his 
wholesome pallor, he was distinctly of a romantic 
appearance. 

Gertrude too had improved enormously. She 
had been rather markedly jeune fille, rather too 
slender and delicate and, simultaneously, rather 
abrupt and disturbing. But she had settled down 
by now into a poise of self-restrained youthfulness 
and even dignity, and her slight jerkiness had 
transformed itself into magnetism. She had made 
her curtsey at Court under Lady Beatrice’s protec- 
tion last summer; her portrait had appeared in 
a good many newspapers, and her name in lists of 
house-parties, especially where there were the- 
atricals. She was taking herself rather seriously 
just now, as she was perfectly aware of her suc- 
cess ; but it certainly did not detract from her charm. 
She was on a round of visits just now, and was 
spending Christmas with her old friends the 
Medds. 

And now these two had drifted upstairs after tea, 
and were discussing women’s rights with extreme 
vivacity. Val had reached the point of explain- 
ing that the great charm of women lay in their 
dependence and their sympathy. He even conde- 
scended to remark that a man’s character was not 


THE COWARD 


167 


complete without a woman’s; that a man’s natural 
courage was too hard a quality until lined, so to 
speak, with a woman’s tenderness, and his reckless- 
ness softened by her prudence. And Gertie listened 
to him with intense eagerness, contradicted him 
warmly, and when she was not looking at his face, 
watched his shoe impatiently beating in the firelight. 
It may be added that she was dressed in a very 
charming tea-gown, which she had put on im- 
mediately after a hasty cup of tea in the hall, drank 
by her while her riding-habit still reeked and 
steamed with wet; and that she made great play 
with a fan with which she was protecting her face 
from the roaring glare of the wood fire. 

“ When are you leaving here?” asked Val 
abruptly; suddenly tired, it seemed, of women’s 
rights. (After all, had not that question been 
settled, a hundred times, in as many undergrad- 
uates’ rooms in Cambridge?) 

“ My aunt’s coming to take me on to the North- 
amptons on Tuesday. I’m in some theatricals 
there, you know.” 

“ Oh ! Tuesday,” said Val reflectively. “ What 
are you acting in ? ” 

He watched her as she described her part. 

. . . It seemed that Royalty was to be present, 

too. 


THE COWARD 


1 68 

Now of course Val was sentimental. Let that be 
said at once. And it must further be remarked 
that no young man of his age and temperament 
could possibly be anything else. He thought a 
great deal, that is to say, about negligible ex- 
ternals — about the texture of this girl’s hair; the 
gleam on her stocking: he liked to think of her 
when he had got into bed and turned the light off, 
to make small plans for next day, to rehearse the 
incidents of the past day; even to design a vague 
but delicious future when Gertie and he should 
have a moderately sized house in the country and 
a little flat in town, and be perfectly reasonable 
and sympathetic one to another without growing 
any older, for ever and ever. All this, of course, 
was perfectly suitable and inevitable; and the only 
significant point, distinguishing Val’s love-career 
from that of the perfectly ordinary boy, was that 
it had lasted three years, with more or less con- 
tinuity, ever since the day when, to the sound of 
music in the hall, he had first perceived that she 
was charming and lovable. Other girls had, of 
course, flitted across his vision ; but they had never 
stayed. Gertrude Marjoribanks had been the un- 
derlying type and model of them. He had seen 
her fairly frequently. She had been up to Cam- 
bridge with May to see him row ; he had shot with 
her people; and she came to Medhurst at least 


THE COWARD 


169 


twice a year for a tolerably long stay. It was 
a clean, honest adoration; and he was beginning 
to feel, at last, that it was getting a little too much 
for him and that something must be done. After 
all, he would be far from penniless in a few years’ 
time; and she too would be moderately well off. 
They could manage the flat in town, anyhow; and 
perhaps Medhurst would serve for the present as 
their country house. 

In other respects the three years that had elapsed 
since the Switzerland affair had developed the 
situation on orderly and conventional lines. Austin 
had grown a moustache at Cambridge, and had cut 
it off again when he began to eat his dinners in 
the Temple; and was now a perfectly respectable 
barrister and something of a prig. He was to stand 
for Parliament when a suitable occasion arose. He 
and Val saw very little of one another, and got on 
as well as such brothers usually do; that is to say, 
they were quite reasonably polite to one another, 
and occasionally, with a pregnant word or two, 
began and ended small decorous quarrels. Val 
thought Austin a prig, and Austin thought Val im- 
mature and rather conceited; and they were both 
quite right. May had also become three years 
older, and had began to be what is called “ a good 
daughter ” ; that is to say, she used to help her 


170 


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mother to write invitations, and to tell her father, 
playfully, not to sit up too late. The General’s 
confusion when this happened for the first time, and 
his acquiescence in it when he understood that it 
was only playful, and quite suitable, was really 
edifying. He too was three years older, rather grey 
about the ears, and rather bald on the top of his 
head; and his wife too had developed along 
parallel feminine lines ; that is to say that she 
walked less, and rather slower, and was more 
tolerant of the High-Church pranks of her vicar. 

All things, therefore, were as they should be, after 
three years. People came and went as usual; they 
shot, they danced, they spent peaceful if rather un- 
eventful week-ends at Medhurst. Everybody went 
up to London at the end of May and came away 
again at the end of July. And the great house sat 
still and unchanged; it buzzed with subdued life 
below in the servants’ quarters, and beat tranquilly 
with stateliness and beauty above. The pheasants 
clucked over their young during the spring in the 
deep woods, and flew cackling over the guns in the 
winter. The horses came round as usual, the bell 
rang from the stable-turret, and the gong sounded 
within. There was still the annual flower-show, 
and the harvest festival, and all the other proper 
things. And the Medd pride lay over all like a 


THE COWARD 


171 

benediction, and burned within like a steady flame 
of fire. 


(n) 

“ I quite agree with you,” said Gertie suddenly, 
“ that men must be brave. If they aren’t that they 
aren’t men. But, as a matter of fact, women are 
just as brave, and often a good deal braver.” 

“ I used to think I was a coward,” said Val, 
smiling reminiscently. “ Do you remember my be- 
ing thrown off Quentin three years ago? Well, 
you know, I was awfully nervous next day. I 
couldn’t ride anyhow, as I had strained myself. 
But, you know, I was awfully glad I couldn’t.” 

She looked up. 

“ Yes?” 

“ Well, it was all nonsense, of course. Of course 
I should have ridden if I had been able. And the 
feeling frightened one couldn’t help. I remember 
reading in a book on riding that that often hap- 
pened when one fell slowly.” 

She nodded. 

“ Yes, I see. So long as one does ride, the 
feeling doesn’t matter.” 

“ Well, when I came back from Switzerland, of 
course I rode just as usual. Oh! and the same 
thing happened in Switzerland — the time I found 


172 


THE COWARD 


out I hadn’t any head for climbing. I was hor- 
ribly ashamed at first, until a man out there — the 
Secretary of the Alpine Club — told me he had 
known just the same thing happen to a V.C. He 
just couldn’t look over a precipice. I was fright- 
fully sick at the time. I’d have given anything to 
have climbed the Matterhorn with the rest; but it 
simply wasn’t fair on the others that I should try, 
with a head like mine.” 

“ Yes, I see. And I should think not climbing 
the Matterhorn was really braver than climbing it.” 

Val shifted comfortably in his chair. The fire- 
light fell on his face, and she noticed his eyes 
sparkle. 

“ Well, I know it seemed much harder, anyhow. 
To have to stop at home and grin — to see them off 
to the Schwarz-See, and then to go back to dinner 
with all the old women, when one knew perfectly 
well that if it wasn’t for one’s beastly head one 
could climb it perfectly ? ” 

He stopped dramatically. 

Gertie was in that warm and genial mood that 
follows an afternoon’s hard exercise, closed by tea 
and a hot bath, and a complete change into very 
charming and comfortable clothes; and it seemed to 
her that this boy was really a very fine creature. 
He seemed to her so modest and so subtly coura- 
geous. Most young men would have shirked such 


THE COWARD 


173 

a story. He faced it. She felt a real and rather 
subtle admiration for him. 

“ Look here, Gertie,” said Val suddenly. “ If 
you’re going on Tuesday, I wish you’d come a really 
long ride with me one day first. You said you’d 
never seen Penshurst. Why shouldn’t we go 
over? ” 

She began to smile, and then stopped. 

“ Oh ! do you think we could ? ” she said. 

“ Why not? On Monday. We’d take lunch 
and go easily.” 

“ There’s the dance in the evening.” 

“ We’d be back before dark.” 

She was silent. 

Gertie was no more calculating or ambitious than 
the average girl. Her people were reasonably well 
to do, and she was the only daughter. There cer- 
tainly had been moments this previous year when 
various prospects of rather a glittering nature had 
passed before her eyes; it had occurred to her, for 
instance, that it would be extremely pleasant to be 
a Viscountess, and not altogether inconceivable. 

. . But somehow these things faded rather at 

Medhurst, and it was a fact that the Viscount in 
question had shown no signs of his existence since 
August, though she believed she was to meet him 
at the Northamptons’. Meanwhile here was Med- 


174 


THE COWARD 


hurst; and here was Val — Val, whom she had 
known for three years, with whom she had danced, 
played, ridden, skated; who was always pleasant to 
her, and courteous and natural. Of course, he was 
only a Cambridge undergraduate at present ; but he 
would not be that for more than two years more. 
. . . And . . . and he obviously liked her 

very much. 

So, suddenly in the firelight (they had not trou- 
bled to turn on the electricity) it seemed to her that 
prudence was a very ignoble thing — the prudence, 
that is, which sets a Viscount before a Medd. Any- 
how, this was a very splendid place, and had a great 
tradition, even though the physical possession of it 
would never be Val’s. (He was to “ be an en- 
gineer,” she believed, when lie left Cambridge; 
which would mean that he played at work for a few 
years, and then began to work at playing instead, 
on a very competent income.) Yes, prudence and 
calculation were detestable and cold-blooded things ; 
and Val looked very gallant and sweet in the fire- 
light. 

“ Well, I’ll come,” she said, “ if you’ll arrange it 
all.” 


(m) 

Austin, meanwhile, was holding forth to his 
mother in her morning-room on the very same 


THE COWARD 


*75 


subject. He was standing on the hearth-rug, his 
legs rather wide apart, looking almost too mature 
and dignified for twenty-two. He was in his din- 
ner-jacket and trousers, for he too had changed on 
coming in; and he held his dark, well-shaped head 
rather high. 

Now Austin had been perfectly loyal to his 
younger brother over the Swiss business. He had 
repeated, though coldly, Val’s voluble and warm- 
blooded explanations upon their return. For, in- 
deed, it was impossible to do anything else. But 
he had remembered the facts; and, if the truth must 
be confessed, was not sorry to have a definite 
peg on which to hang that very natural and almost 
universal elder brother’s contempt for a younger. 
But he was prig enough to be unaware of all this; 
he only told himself now and then, when a safety- 
valve was needed, that poor Val must not be blamed 
too much: somehow or another an unfortunate 
strain had got into his blood. This was very con- 
venient and soothing when Val made himself a 
nuisance, as it preserved his own dignity and made 
him feel magnanimous. 

The fact that Val was, officially, a “ man,” made 
things harder. You can treat a boy as a boy; you 
cannot treat an undergraduate as a child. Val 
smoked now openly, and drank whisky unrebuked; 
he had a dressing-case with silver fittings ; he 


THE COWARD 


176 

shaved every day — he did, in fact, all those things 
that had separated him and Austin three years 
before. And now he was making love too, in an 
offhand way, and it was not actually ridiculous; 
at least it needed to be called ridiculous before it 
was so. 

This was what Austin was doing. 

“ I feel rather foolish,” he said, looking very 
wise and mature, “ in speaking about it at all, 
mother. Of course I haven’t said a word to Val; 
he wouldn’t stand it. But do you think it’s quite 
wise to let those two — Val and Gertie, I mean — 
go about alone together so much?” 

His mother was just a shade respectful to him 
now. Sir James Meredith, k.c., had been very com- 
plimentary about the application and solid consci- 
entiousness of this son of hers, though he had not 
used the word “ brilliance.” And he was the son 
and heir, and had a great deal of dignity. 

“ Are they so much alone together ? And ” 

“ Why, they rode together all to-day, away from 
the rest of us. I don’t think father liked it.” 

“ But they’ve known one another a long time, 
Austin ” 

“ And I’m sure Val’s got some plan in his head 
for Monday. Gertie goes on Tuesday, doesn’t 
she?” (Austin was not quite so much detached 


THE COWARD 


177 


as he wished to think himself. To be perfectly 
frank, he had attempted a few solemn courtesies 
to Gertie himself, and he had gathered that they 
were met with irony — almost with amusement. 
But he honestly did not know that this was affec- 
ting him in his very conscientious remarks this even- 
ing.) 

He proceeded to explain that Val was only nine- 
teen and Gertie eighteen; that Val had to apply 
himself very steadily if he was to pass his engineer- 
ing examinations ; and that while it was not for one 
single instant his business to interfere, if Val chose 
to engage himself at this absurd age to a girl 
who was not in the least suited to him, yet he 
. . . well, he considered it his duty to do so. 
It was all said with a tremendous air of respon- 
sibility, and his mother was conscious more than 
once of a desire to laugh. But that would never 
do. 

“ Well, my son,” she said, “ I’m glad you’ve 
told me. I don’t think I’d better interfere, though. 
Gertie’s going on Tuesday, anyhow. And even if 
you’re right, and it’s more than a mere boy and girl 
affair, I’m not quite so sure as you are that it would 
be such a bad thing. She’s a very good girl, you 
know, and Val will have nearly a thousand a year of 
his own when he leaves Cambridge.” 

Austin thrust his chin a shade higher. 


178 


THE COWARD 


“ Oh ! that’s all riglit,” he said ; “ so long as you 
know. But I thought I’d better tell you.” 

“ Thank you, Austin,” she said quite gravely. 

Austin’s very slightly ruffled feelings were not 
smoothed by his reception in the schoolroom. This 
was one of those delightful nondescript rooms 
which girls have in big houses, as much theirs as 
the smoking-room is the men’s, or, in this case, as the 
sitting-room at the end of the north wing was the 
boys’. Here small, inconvenient tables occupied 
the spaces in front of the low mullioned windows; 
pieces of embroidery were pinned upon the walls; 
bw white chairs were gathered round the open fire- 
place; china was grouped in corners and on the 
mantelshelf. It was a room entirely white and 
green, suggestive of innocence and cleanliness. 
The boys only came here on invitation expressed or 
understood ; and there was no room to do anything 
anywhere, as every vacant space on table and floor 
was occupied with partly finished works in paint or 
pokerwork or needlework — with easels, and work- 
boxes, and a large spinning-wheel completely out 
of repair. 

Austin came in here with stately step, and was 
confounded by the darkness and the sound of a faint 
movement. 


THE COWARD 


179 

“ That you, Austin ? ” came from a boy’s figure 
outlined against the glowing chimney. 

Austin switched on the light. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I came to see if — er — 
May ” 

“ May’s playing pool with Tom Meredith and 
Miss Deverell. She was here a little while ago.” 
(To be perfectly accurate, May had looked in to 
find a ball which she had taken upstairs to amuse 
the kitten with, at a quarter to six. It was now ten 
minutes past seven.) 

“ Oh! ” said Austin. 

“ Anything else I can do for you? ” enquired Val 
politely. 

Gertie stood up, looking at a watch on her 
bracelet. 

“ Good gracious!” she said. “ It’s after seven. 
I must fly.” 

She flew. Austin held the door politely open 
and closed it after her. 

Then he advanced a step. 

“Val,” he said. 

“ Yes?” 

“ Rather odd your sitting all alone here with 
Gertie so long.” 

“ I beg your pardon ? ” 

Now Austin ought to have detected from a 


i8o 


THE COWARD 


peculiar tone in the other’s voice that this was, 
emphatically, not the time to advance criticisms. 
Val still had within him the warm, tingling effect of 
an hour and a half alone with a very charming 
and magnetic girl, and his mood was one that can 
only be called dangerous. 

Besides, it was an entire surprise to him (as it 
always is in such cases) that anyone else had 
noticed the faintest possible relationship, beyond the 
most ordinary between himself and Gertie. He 
thought that no one was aware of it except himself. 

Well, Austin in his rectitude knew nothing of 
this. He thought it merely a good opportunity of 
acting in a superior and elder-brotherly manner. 

“ I say,” he repeated firmly, “ that it’s rather odd 
your sitting all alone with Gertie here, ever since tea 
* — in the dark,” he added as a clincher. 

There was a moment’s silence. Then he saw Val 
lick his lips, and perceived that he looked odd; and 
simultaneously realised that in his passion for de- 
corum he had gone a shade too far. He recoiled, 
interiorly. 

“ I’ve never heard such vile insolence in my life. 
How dare you speak to me like that ! ” 

“ My dear chap ” 

“ You’d better get out of this room,” went on 
Val, still icily, though his voice quavered ever so 
slightly. “ I don’t want to hit you in the face.” 


THE COWARD 


181 


Austin perceived that Val, with his hand still on 
the chair-back which he had gripped on rising, 
swayed a shade nearer him. 

He wheeled sharply on his heel, so resolutely as 
to silence any question of his courage. At the door 
he turned again. 

“ It’s disgraceful you should speak to me like 
that,” he said quietly. “ I simply came to ” 

“ You’d better not say any more. Get out of my 
sight.” 

Val took a step nearer his brother. He regretted 
this afterwards, for Austin instantly sat down on a 
little white sofa and put one knee over the other. 
This was a distinct challenge; and Austin, to his 
satisfaction, saw that Val hesitated. 

“ I shall not go,” said the elder, “ at your bid- 
ding. . . . Val; sit down a minute. You must 
hear what I have to say, in justice to myself.” 

Val sat down, slowly, as if his righteous anger 
were just, and only just, curbed by his keen sense 
of justice. Austin perceived his own advantage, 
but resolved to be magnanimous. 

“ Look here,” he said, “ I’m tired of these per- 
petual rows. I came in here ” 

“ And say something offensive,” spat Val, shaken 
by a spasm of indignation. 

“ I came in here,” repeated Austin, “ simply to 
warn you that you’re making . . . that you’ll 


THE COWARD 


182 

be making an exhibition of yourself with Gertie 
if you don’t look out. I should have thought ” 

“ You’re very good,” said Val bitterly. “ It’s 
extraordinarily kind of you to. And may I ask 
what business it is of yours? ” 

Austin felt the battle was won. There had cer- 
tainly been a moment when he had been slightly 
frightened himself ; but he saw he w^as on top now. 
He stood up and put his hand on the door again. 

“ My good chap. If you think it’s not my busi- 
ness, there’s no more to be said. Personally, I 
should have been grateful under the same circum- 
stances; but I see you’re not. Very good. I won’t 
bother you again.” 

“ I suppose you mean to imply that I’m . . . 

I’m in love with Gertie ? ” 

“ 1 ” 

“ Will you be good enough to answer my ques- 
tion? ” 

Austin dropped the handle again. 

“ I meant nothing more than that it looked like 
it,” he said. 

“ Well then, it looked wrong,” said Val, de- 
liberately and consciously lying. “ It’s simply 
scandalous that I can’t be friends with a girl who’s 
been in and out of this house for three years, with- 
out people poking and prying and suspecting I’m in 
love. I like Gertie; and I’m going to do exactly 


THE COWARD 


183 


and precisely as I like. I’m going a long ride with 
her on Monday, if that’s any satisfaction to you. 
And I’ll thank you to keep your remarks to yourself, 
and to mind your own business.” 

Austin smiled gently. He even bowed a little. 

“ Then I think,” he remarked, “ there’s no more 
to be said.” 

His knees shook a little as he went down the 
passage, humming just loud enough for Val to 
hear. 

“ Poor chap ! ” he said to himself. “ He funked 
me badly then.” 

Val remained standing. He heard Austin hum- 
ming. He smiled by a muscular effort. 

“ I frightened him rather badly that time, I 
think,” he said out loud. 


CHAPTER II 


(I) 



HERE is no period of the year in which a long 


ride can be more delightful than in winter, 
if circumstances are propitious. For both heat and 
flies, those supreme enemies to comfort, are absent; 
the horses are vivacious; and if the sky is clear, 
though without frost (for that tingles the toes), 
and windless, and if there is not too much mud, 
both body and mind are happy. 

They had had an exceedingly pleasant visit to 
Penshurst; there were no other visitors, and the 
old caretaker, on recognising they had come from 
Medhurst, was deferential and intelligent. They 
ate their sandwiches in the garden, and by two 
o’clock were well on their way homewards. 

Their conversation is not worth recording. It 
was startlingly unimportant, and the only valuable 
element in the experience was the degree of intimacy 
that grew upon them both with every mile they 
traversed. They rode by by-ways and fields. Val 
opened gates; pheasants ran and scurried in the 
undergrowth; pigeons sailed over them, shying 


184 


THE COWARD 


185 


suddenly like a boat caught in a gust as the riders 
became visible; the pleasant wintry air, clear and 
fresh, bearing just the faintest whiff of frost as the 
sun declined, breathed round them; and the sky 
gradually began to marshal its colours for a fine 
sunset effect. Once Gertie dropped her whip; Val 
was off and up again in an instant; their eyes met 
as he handed it back to her. 

Of course they had arranged about the evening 
an hour after they had left home. Gertie was to 
dance with Val at such-and-such times; they were 
to go to supper together. A certain corner of the 
music-gallery was to be a kind of trysting-place if 
either should feel bored. They laughed and their 
eyes sparkled as they arranged this. 

They both really played the game very well. 
Each was perfectly aware that the stage of intimacy 
towards which they were advancing was a delicate 
one and easily upset. 

An over-intimate remark, a touch of dispro- 
portionate sentimentality, a single unwarranted 
assumption — any of these things would have dis- 
turbed the balance and set it swinging. Both were 
inexperienced, yet both had a certain sensitiveness 
of intuition that guided them surely and safely. 
It might have seemed a little immature to experts 
in flirtation; Gertie’s management of her eyes, for 
instance, was a degree over-emphatic once or twice ; 


1 86 


THE COWARD 


Val’s silences had occasionally a touch of gciucherie; 
but it suited these two very well. They were gour- 
mands in sensation, rather than gourmets. They 
did not enjoy the infinite subtleties of young men 
of forty and young women of thirty; but they 
would not have understood them either. They 
were just boy and girl ; but they were well-bred boy 
and girl. 

As the sky reached the climax of its evening glory, 
they came side by side along a field-path up to 
rising ground where pines stood. It was a kind of 
vantage-ground over the country round them, and 
they drew rein at the further edge of the trees to 
look about them. Behind lay Kent; before them 
Sussex; and Ashdown Forest stretched away, dark 
and golden, in front, beneath the wide, glowing sky. 

Gertie looked wonderful, thought Val, as he 
glanced at her sideways, with that splendid sunlight 
straight in her face. Her dark eyes gleamed in the 
midst of her face, and her face shone like warm 
ivory. She was ever so slightly flushed with the 
exercise. Her dark green habit fitted her young 
outline like a glove; she sat on her white mare like 
Diana. . . . 

And he too, though she never seemed to look at 
him, appeared a Sir Percival. He was in grey. 
His face was grave and serious ; his hair caught the 


THE COWARD 


187 


sunshine and was turned to sombre gold. He 
seemed to her young and virile and quiet and 
romantic. . . . 

So they sat silent for an instant or two — boy 
and girl — looking out upon the sea of sunlit air, 
the golden cloud-islands of the west, the carpet of 
tree-tops ; and each saw what each looked upon only 
as a framework and a setting for the thought of 
the other. For each the other was sovereign, and 
all else a world fit to lie only beneath the other’s 
feet. . . . 


(n) 

“ Let’s canter down here,” said Gertie, without 
looking at him. “ It’s getting late.” She lifted 
her reins and leaned forward, and the white mare 
was off. 

It was a long, straight ride that lay before them, 
and both knew it well; for they were not an hour’s 
distance from Medhurst. 

“ Remember the quarry at the end,” cried Val, 
and she nodded sideways at him over her shoulder. 

Now there was a cock pheasant who had had a 
very agitating experience on the previous day. No 
less than twice had he been aroused by talking 
persons with sticks and compelled to fly over the 


THE COWARD 


1 88 

tree-tops; and no less than twice had there been 
a sudden nerve-shattering din beneath him as he 
flew, protesting, and a horribly suggestive scream- 
ing sound in the air immediately behind him. He 
had arrived in safety again at last a mile from 
home, with one resolution firmly embedded among 
his instincts, inherited and acquired, to the effect 
that it was better to lie still beneath bracken than to 
run, and better to run than to fly. 

He was out walking out this evening in the sun- 
shine, picking at such beech-nuts and small grubs 
as attracted his attention, not a yard away from the 
ride down which a girl on a white mare happened 
to be cantering. First he lifted his head, with one 
foot upraised, as he heard the quick thudding noise 
grow nearer. Then he put down his head and 
began to run with extraordinary swiftness and 
silence, parallel to the ride, since a disagreeable low 
wire- fence prevented his escape to the right. Yet 
the thudding noise gained on him. His wings were 
out behind, hanging wide and loose, and he helped 
his speed now and again by a flap. Yet the thud- 
ding noise gained on him, and now he was aware 
out of one flaming eye that a disconcerting group 
was descending straight upon him, as it seemed — 
first a white and black monster, then a black and 
grey. 

Then, as he lifted himself indeed to fly, and drew 


THE COWARD 


189 


that final breath before uttering the cry that was at 
once his appeal and his defiance, he perceived that 
the fence on his right wheeled suddenly inwards 
and barred his way. There was no help for it; he 
rose with a noise like a rocket, twisted his flight 
simultaneously, and burst out of his thicket side- 
ways, scarcely a foot in front of the white mare’s 
head. . . . Higher and higher he rose, far into 

the sunlight above the pine tops, still crowing with 
agitated triumph till far away across the woods he 
saw his goal ; then, like a boat coming into harbour 
at last, he spread his wings, stiff and resolute, and 
down the long slide of air, descended by a magnifi- 
cent vol plane down among the tree-tops, down 
between their stems; landed, ran, walked, and 
couched, silent again, listening for the sounds of 
pursuit. 

And meanwhile the white mare had swerved, 
tossed her head, snorted, and bolted, mad with 
fright, straight down the ride at the end of which 
lay the quarry-edge, not five hundred yards away. 

The moment the first wild scurry was over Gertie 
settled down to her task. She had torn at the reins 
in the hope of breaking the rush short before it had 
settled down into the bolt proper. Then she jerked 
the snaffle-reins loose and put her whole strength 
into the curb, sawing first on this side, then on that; 


190 


THE COWARD 


yet she dared not saw too hard, lest the jerk should 
carry her more into the trees on either side. 

It is impossible to say that she was frightened. 
She saw the facts before her — the possibility that 
the mare might fall on the slope, the probability 
that both would go over the quarry-edge together, 
and the calamity of death if they did. But these 
facts were remote as a horizon; the immediate 
thing was that the mare must be stopped. She 
leaned back, she tugged, she tossed her whip aside, 
she jerked; then she leaned back again . . . 

and da capo. 

Little scenes and ideas flitted before her with the 
speed of intense thought. She seemed to herself to 
be two persons — the one remote and detached, 
regarding a fallen log, the amber sky, the flattened 
ears of the mare, the flying mane ; the other at first 
passionately attentive to the need of stopping this 
flight, then furious, then miserable. For it seems 
in such instants as if the two “ selves” of modern 
psychology — the subjective and the objective — 
are wrenched apart in such critical moments as 
these; as if each exists on its own lines, follows its 
own course, and makes its own observations. . . . 

Then, at a turn in the ride where the space 
broadened, she saw straight in front, perhaps a 
hundred and fifty yards ahead, the low belt of 
underwood that fringed the edge of the quarry into 


THE COWARD 


191 

which she had peered with Val and Austin a week 
or two before, and beyond it the opposite cliff, 
crowned with pines, black against the glowing sky. 
And, simultaneously, two things happened ; she 
began to sob — at least one part of her began to sob 
— and she saw on the right side Quentin's head 
move up, first to the girths of her own mare, then 
level with the mare’s head, and Val’s hand shot out 
to clutch her reins. 

Val was shouting, she remembered afterwards, 
but neither then nor afterwards did she know what 
he shouted. For she was overwhelmed by a sense 
of relief ; she leaned back on the dancing saddle, 
half closing her eyes; the sickening sense of loneli- 
ness was gone ; a male was beside her . . . Val, 

dear Val. She did not exactly consider whether or 
no the two would go over the edge together, for she 
did not really care. . . . 

Then came the reaction. . . . Val had seized 

her reins by now, and the two beasts tore together, 
jostling and impeding one another. She under- 
stood, and once more her spirit returned; she sat 
up again, vivid and keen; once more she tugged at 
the reins, throwing her strength chiefly to the 
left. . . . The mare threw up her head; the 

pace grew suddenly short and tempestuous. . . . 

And then her mare had stopped, shaking and 


192 


THE COWARD 


sweating, and Val, still holding the rein, was in 
front of her, leaning right forward over his horse’s 
neck, staring at her, his face set and resolute, while 
Quentin capered gently. The underwood that 
fringed the edge of the quarry was still forty yards 
away. 

“ Thanks very much,” said Gertie. . . . “ Oh ! 

Val. . . ” 

The ride home was very tremulous. They rode 
at a foot’s pace, and Val’s belt was clasped round 
the mare’s curb-chain. He had the other end in his 
left hand. They talked and retalked, over and 
over the same ground, as to the unexpectedness of 
the pheasant, the excuses that must be made for 
the mare, the rival advantages of long, steady pulls 
with pauses and of the sawing of the curb. Val 
supported the former, Gertie the latter. 

Val himself was radiant. His manhood stood 
out from him like an aura. He glanced at her as 
he talked, and even in the deepening gloom of the 
woods she could see that his eyes shone and that 
his mouth alternately was stern and smiled. But 
they were both tremulous; their voices quavered 
now and then, and there were long silences. 

Val told her that never had Quentin seemed so 
slow. He could not get him into a gallop. Quentin 
had slipped a little, it seemed, at the corner. Then 
he had got him into a gallop without difficulty. 


THE COWARD 


193 


He told her that his one fear was that Quentin 
would bolt too and get out of hand, and patting him, 
had praised him in extravagant language for keep- 
ing his head and being so sensible. He described it 
all admirably — his terror that the mare would fall 
and roll over; that he would not be in time; his 
vision of a rabbit that must have run out, it seemed 
to him, actually between Quentin’s feet. 

But he did not tell her — in fact, he was practi- 
cally unconscious of it so long as he talked — that 
a vow had registered itself within him like an 
explosion, that if he missed her rein in that wild 
dash for it, sixty yards from the edge, he would 
pull up . . . for . . . for fear that he 
might do more harm than good. . . . 

(m) 

They sat together in the little entry to the south 
door, and the sound of the band came to them like 
celestial music. They had sat there now for a full 
five minutes without speaking. 

They were perfectly retired here from the world, 
for Val had slipped a tall screen over the entrance. 
(She had pretended not to notice.) 

Over there beyond the passages moved ordinary 
human beings — phantom personages of a world 
that had lost all interest. Austin was there some- 
where, no doubt, priggish and prosaic, in his solemn 


194 


THE COWARD 


suit of evening clothes. His mother still sat there, 
no doubt, with her stick beside her, talking to Pro- 
fessor Macintosh, in his brown velvet coat and his 
ridiculous frilled shirt with pearl buttons. The 
master of the house was there, John Medd of 
Medhurst, tall and unadorned, dancing for the third 
time, probably, with the flimsy and black-silk Miss 
Deverell; and the Merediths were there; and the 
Vicar and his wife, and old Lady Debenham, and 
the parties that had driven over from every house 
in the neighborhood, and the little doctor, and the 
rest of the crowd of guests that supposed themselves 
to be real and human. . . . Val had seen them 

all just now, had moved through them, smiling and 
speaking — he even condescended to that — until he 
had seen Her in Her blue dress, Her slender brown 
arms ending in long white gloves, Her bright dark 
eyes that had met his . . . talking to a fat, red 

Captain who had driven over with the Fergussons. 

Then he had come up and led her away. Neither 
had spoken; they had danced together; then, as if 
by some strange sympathy, they had hesitated 
together as they came near the door. The rhythm 
of the feet had ceased; and they walked together, 
her hand in his arm, through the two parlours, set 
out with chrysanthemums, with their furniture 
pushed against the wall, into the passage by the 
billiard-room, round to the right, and so into the 


THE COWARD 


195 


south porch. There he had drawn the screen across 
the entrance. . . . They had not yet spoken. 

The world was gone ; only, now and again, the gusts 
of music swept out from the hall. 

He suddenly put out his hand and took hers. It 
lay in his passively, and he closed his other upon 
it. . . . 

“ Gertie . . he whispered. 

Every pulse and fibre of his being seemed alive as 
never before. His imagination was drunk with joy 
and courage. He had saved her life to-day; his 
mother had kissed him; his father had said three 
words, looking at him kindly ; Austin had eyed him 
oddly. And she herself, it had seemed to him, had 
said little or nothing, had refused to meet his eyes, 
yet had been conscious of him with a power that 
thrilled his very life. She seemed even now to be 
trembling a little. 

His hand stole upon her arm and fumbled at the 
buttons beneath her smooth elbow. She withdrew 
her arm suddenly, drawing a swift breath. 

“ No . . . no ; take it off,” he whispered. 

“ I . . . I want to kiss your hand.” 

Oh ! it was clumsy love-making, I know that ; but 
it did very well for these two. Gertie could have 
taught him far more of the art than he knew, yet 


196 


THE COWARD 


she loved him for the very artlessness; it was in 
keeping with his courage, his virile honour, his 
simplicity, his clean boyishness; and it was with 
these that she was in love just now. He was her 
Man, not her Troubadour. He had ridden with 
her to-day ; he had pulled up her mare, protected her 
and saved her. It had been the crown and climax 
of that intimacy that had deepened all to-day, that 
had begun — to her knowledge at least — on that 
summer morning when she had heard the sound of 
wheels and stolen to the window to look out at the 
boy who was to do such great things in Switzerland. 
She felt older than him now and again; she had 
smiled to herself when he sulked with Austin; she 
had laughed tenderly over him with his sister; and 
even now she was aware that that strange motherly 
instinct was mixed with her admiration. Yet just 
now she felt as young as he. She trembled to feel 
him so near to her. She pictured him strong, virile, 
courageous — her Man, I say, not a Troubadour. 

And for him, this was the very ecstasy of all. 
This wonderful girl was, for these moments, in his 
possession. It was incredible, yet inevitable. How 
could it not be that a love like his should win ? She 
was near him — nearer in this darkness than in the 
blaze of light in the hall, nearer than when he had 
her there, before the eyes of all. 

So, presently, he had kissed her hand ; and then, 


THE COWARD 


197 

in an instant, had his arms about her and his face 
against her cheek. 


(IV) 

. . . “ Then that’s settled,” whispered Val ten 

minutes later. “ We’re absolutely engaged. And 
neither of us must say a word to anyone.” 

She began to whisper back rapidly and confusedly. 

“ My darling, it’s no good,” went on Val. “ We 
can’t have half-and-half things. If we tell a 
soul we shan’t be allowed to see one another any 
more. And you’re going to-morrow. . . . Oh, 

Gertie!” 

Absolute blankness seemed to open before him as 
he contemplated this. She was explicitly and objec- 
tively a part of his life, now that he had spoken. 
Life was unthinkable without her. . . . And 

after the desolation of Medhurst would come the 
wilderness of Cambridge. . . . 

“ You must come again at Easter,” he said. 

“ Val dear, what’s the good? We ... we 
shan’t be allowed ” 

His will rose up in resolution. 

“ I tell you we shall. And if we’re not we’ll do 
it without. Tell me, Gertie, would you run away 
with me if that was our only chance? ” 

There was no answer. He could hear her breath- 
ing in the darkness; he could feel beneath his arm 


198 


THE COWARD 


her pulses beating; he could see a glimmer of her 
pale face beneath her heavy hair, itself darkness. 

He burst out into whispered entreaties, drawing 
her closer, flinging his other arm about her too and 
clasping his hands. She seemed to him a child in 
his arms, so slender and unresisting was she, so 
determined and nerve-contracted was he. 

“ Oh ! Gertie . . . say you would . . . 
say you would. I love you more than all the 
world. ... I’d ... I’d die for you . . . 
We shan’t have to . . . it’ll be all right. But 

tell me you would ; tell me you would. . . .” 

He slipped down on to his knees, still holding her, 
drawing her down to himself. Her face was very 
near his; he could perceive the faint perfume of her 
hair ; her bare arm lay clenched across his hands. 
She struggled a little, almost gasping. . . . 
Then she grew passive. 

And then the response came. 

For an instant she tore herself free. Then he 
felt himself seized, and kissed, kissed, kissed, on 
mouth and eyes and forehead. 

“ Yes, I would, my darling; I would,” she stam- 
mered. “ I’d do anything for you, Val . . . 

anything. . . . Oh! my Val, I do love you 

. . . I’d die for you . . . you’re . . . 
you’re so strong, and so brave. . . .” 


THE COWARD 


199 


(v) 

Professor Macintosh was describing to Miss 
Deverell at supper, now that Lady Beatrice was 
talking to her partner on the other side, the proper 
way to manage a runaway horse. It seemed that 
one had but to keep one’s head, and to pull quite 
steadily and unagitatedly, talking, if possible, all the 
while in a soothing and reassuring manner. Jerk- 
ing was fatal. So was fright; as it was com- 
municated so easily to the horse. 

He looked up and saw a pair advancing from the 
door. 

“ Why, here come the hero and the heroine ! ” 

He rose from the table and began to wave his 
hands as if conducting a band. 

“ See the conquering hero comes ! ” he sang in a 
large resonant voice. 

“ There’s a seat over there, my son,” said Lady 
Beatrice. “ Two. How late you are! ” 

Val took Gertie to the chair, and then went to the 
sideboard for cold chicken and a jug of champagne- 
cup. 


CHAPTER III 


(i) 



TIE emotion called “ calf-love ” is not only 


A beautiful, it is often singularly constant; and 
Val carried back with him to Cambridge a photo- 
graph in a tiny locket with a concealed catch, two 
much creased letters, and a very potent Ideal. 

Her handwriting — rather large and bold — was 
dearer to him even than the photograph; the one 
was a mere reproduction, the other an emanation. 
Her hand had actually rested on the paper, the 
emphatic little dashes here and there were the direct 
outcome of her actual feeling; so he made a little 
parcel of the locket and the letters, had them sewn 
into oil-silk with an outer covering of embroidery, 
and carried the whole on a thin chain inside his shirt, 
like a scapular. It was kissed night and morning; 
and it rested between his fingers as he knelt by his . 
bedside, having rediscovered since Christmas the 
exquisite luxury that can be obtained from prayers. 

Such was one manifestation of the new Ideal; but 
it worked in a hundred other directions as well, 
some of which would have been strangely bewilder- 


200 


THE COWARD 


201 


ing to Gertie herself, had she known of them. It 
became a matter of common knowledge presently 
that Val Medd did not appreciate certain kinds of 
conversation, that he would not play poker for 
more than halfpenny points, and that he was in 
real danger of becoming a Sap. So mightily and 
sweetly did this Ideal order all things, that even 
Punctuality at Lectures came beneath its sway. 
Certain pictures disappeared from Medd’s walls and 
were found by interested friends carefully packed 
in a pile on the top of his bedroom wardrobe. He 
still gave dinners in Jesus Lane, but they were 
peaceful and orderly affairs. He frequented the 
Pitt Club much as usual, but he straddled less across 
the fire in the smoking-room, and read more maga- 
zines in the reading-room. (Remonstrances were 
useless.) 

Interiorly, therefore, the Ideal triumphed even 
more completely; and certain things henceforward 
became impossible for him; and among these, his 
old fear of Fear. It seemed to him sometimes, as 
he reflected during those long intervals which a boy 
in love will contrive to get for himself, merely 
incredible that cowardice had ever had any relations 
with him whatever. And even more than this; 
for he came presently to recognise for the first time, 
and without any emotion but that of a detached 
astonishment, that he had not always behaved with 


202 


THE COWARD 


that fortitude which he would have wished. Of 
course his repeated explanations and acts of faith in 
himself had obscured his self-knowledge; and he 
still believed that it was a proper prudence only 
that had restrained him from attempting the ascent 
of the Matterhorn; yet he did now begin to under- 
stand that it was not a purely physical and 
irresistible force, independent of his own will, that 
had caused him to cry out, “ I can’t ... I 
can’t . . .” on the lower slope of the mountain. 

So complete, however, was the sweep which his 
Ideal had made of his imagination, that he could 
face this memory without shame. It was simply 
another Valentine Medd altogether who had done 
this thing, not the lover of Gertie Marjoribanks. 
Old things had passed away; all things were made 
new. 

Meanwhile a very pretty little plot engaged his 
diplomatic powers, and he took his part in it with 
considerable skill. 

He began by writing two letters, one in each of 
the first two weeks of the Lent term, to his sister 
May, explaining in the first that he was sorry he had 
given up doing his duty in this way since he had 
left Eton. This first letter, too, was honestly unpre- 
meditated ; he was only conscious of a vague impulse 
to be in closer touch, not with his sister, but with 
Gertie’s friend. The second letter was deliberately 


THE COWARD 


203 


guileful, and he ended it with a P. S. : “ Why 

hasn't mother ever let you go abroad? I’d come 
with you like a shot any time you liked.” 

This produced, of course, a wail from May, saying 
how unfair it was that boys always had the best of 
everything, and inviting suggestions. And then Val 
unmasked one of his guns, said that he believed that 
Rome at Easter was perfectly charming, and why 
shouldn’t he and May go there for a fortnight in the 
vacation ? Would May see how the land lay ? And 
then Val drew his breath hard, so to speak, and 
prayed and willed and rehearsed. 

There followed a silence, and every day that 
passed at once deferred and rekindled hope. But 
his intuitions had been perfectly right and his trains 
of powder admirably laid. It was quite obvious 
that two girls would be better than one ; that Gertie 
Marjoribanks, who knew French and Italian really 
well and was May’s adored friend, was the proper 
person to be asked; so exactly ten days after Val’s 
adroit remarks had left the Pitt Club letter-box, he 
sat smiling one morning, silent and preoccupied, 
over breakfast, to the indignation of Jim Waterbury, 
with whom he “ kept,” conscious that, tucked in 
between the kippers and the toast, was an incoherent 
torrent of delight from May announcing that consent 
had been given, and that on the Monday before 
Easter sb£ and Gertie Marjoribanks and Val were to 


204 


THE COWARD 


be permitted to start for Rome. One single trail of 
cloud dimmed the perfection of the sky, and that 
was the possibility, added in a postscript, that Austin 
might also be coming with them. 

This, however, was comparatively of little impor- 
tance. Even Austin could not destroy the delight 
of a fortnight’s travel with Gertie. And she was 
coming to Medhurst again in the summer, and again 
at Christmas ; and he was to shoot at a house where 
she was to be staying in September. 

The necessary secrecy of the whole affair, too, 
added poignancy. It was delicious in a certain sense 
that Gertie could not be written to ; for the two had 
resolved with excellent prudence not to write to one 
another more than once in six weeks. And, instead, 
there was the sense of a joy shared in silence, of two 
hearts exulting together without hint or sign to the 
one from the other. . . . 

(ii) 

It is harder to describe Gertie’s own attitude, since 
in her more complex emotions were at work. In the 
case of Val there was but one supreme white-hot 
fact — the fact of the ten times refined love of a 
young male to his mate — refined by romance, by 
heredity, and permitted to burn the more purely 
from the rather simple nature of the fuel. But the 
girl, younger in years, was not only more complex, 


THE COWARD 


205 


but infinitely more experienced. Music and acting 
had been her outlet up to now, and these had in- 
creased her imaginative range as well as developing 
her powers of sensation. The two hearts were, one 
to the other, as a bow to a violin. It is the violin 
that actually holds the music, from the shrill cry of 
the treble to the languorous murmur of the bass; 
and if the bow shivers with the ecstasy of the touch, 
it is a single ecstasy and not a thousand. It is true 
that just now the music was being called out by the 
bow; that Gertie answered Val; that the boy was 
dominant; but it is no less true that the music was 
in the violin, not in the bow ; and, though she played 
his tune just now with all her heart, that she was 
capable of other melodies as well. If the bow were 
to be broken another could be made; if the violin 
were broken its exact fellow could not be found. 

Very well, then; it was one aspect of Val that for 
the present held her vision, and to that she bowed 
down her whole being, genuinely and even pro- 
foundly. She had got accustomed to him in the 
intimacy of Medhurst, and having worked through 
those superficial awkwardnesses and un familiarities 
that otherwise might have hindered her knowledge 
of him, had arrived at a stratum of his character — 
his romantic faculties and imaginations — which she 
thought were so well illustrated by his external 


20 6 


THE COWARD 


appearance. He had a knightly sort of face, grim 
and pure, a down-bent nose, thin, compressed lips, 
a projecting chin, and crisp hair; he was long-limbed 
and sinewy. . . . And he had ridden after her 

at a gallop and saved her life. He stood to her, 
therefore, as a kind of gallant; he had made lc^ve 
ardently and simply; and so at last her rather rich 
nature had fastened upon him as a kind of Sir 
Percival, had decked him out in virtues such as 
those of courage and strength, and crowned him 
king. 

She was behaving, then, as such girls will. At 
first she had carried the little ring he had sent her, 
set with one large turquoise, where he carried her 
locket, and it had risen and fallen with her breathing. 
Then, greatly daring, she had put it on, where she 
had worn it ever since. She too remembered him 
continually, when she woke and before she slept; 
she too locked her door sometimes, put out the light, 
and dreamed before the fire. All this was perfectly 
genuine; she loved to think of herself with him, 
obeying him, yielding to him, leaning upon him; 
she was magnificently aloof with the middle-aged 
Viscount, and wondered whether she showed signs 
of a secret sorrow; she acted and played with real 
passion. . . . She was more often silent; and 

she wrote to May every single day, laying it upon 


THE COWARD 


207 

herself not to mention Val’s name more than once a 
fortnight. 

Now all this was perfectly simple and genuine; 
it was schoolgirl love, no doubt, but it was none the 
worse for that; it was perfectly sweet and fresh; it 
was the strongest emotion she had ever felt. There 
was no coquetry in it ; to have given him pain would 
have given her agony; it was her deliberate and 
sincere resolve to carry through the engagement to 
its conclusion; she saw herself as his wife; as the 
mother of his children. She proposed to grow aged 
and silver-haired in his love service, and exactly to 
resemble Lady Beatrice Medd thirty years hence. 
And so forth. 

But her complexity vented itself in her conscious- 
ness of herself as performing those duties, and in 
an idea that she had a wider range than Val. In 
him, all other emotions had vanished in his love; 
in her, other emotions ministered to love, but pre- 
served their own identity. For example, she won- 
dered whether, as has been said, she showed signs of 
a secret sorrow; and Val never wondered at all — 
he would have been miserable and ashamed at the 
thought that such a thing could possibly happen to 
himself. Two months ago he might have so won- 
dered; now his complexity was gone. Or, again, 
she formed little pictures of herself as “ managing ” 
him ; Val thought of nothing but of loving her. In 


208 


THE COWARD 


fact, she flattered herself, as feminine minds will, by 
dwelling upon his dear simplicity, while Val thought 
nothing of her qualities and all of her. Lastly, she 
measured her love to him by the sacrifices that she 
was so gladly making for him (the Viscount, for 
instance). She wondered whether it was conceiva- 
ble that Providence might arrange for Val’s inherit- 
ing of Medhurst, whereas Val forgot to think of 
sacrifices at all. 

Here, then, the two were; eighty miles apart as 
we measure space, utterly together as both sincerely 
believed. Again and again Val, brooding happily 
over the^ fire after a lonely dinner, watched her in 
imagination as she lay down to sleep. . . . 

Again and again Gertie, lying down to sleep, 
watched Val in imagination brooding over the fire. 
. . . They were boy and girl indeed. But they 

were none the worse for that. 


So much for Psychology. 


CHAPTER IV 


(i) 

44' I^HEN to-morrow,” said May, with an air of 
great decision, “ we’ll see the sunset from 
the Pincian for the last time. And on Wednesday 
everyone’ll dawdle and pack.” 

They had done all the proper things in the proper 
way — St. Peter’s twice, the Catacombs, the Forum, 
a public audience, tea in the Piazza Spagna, St. 
Mary Major, the models and the almond blossom 
on the steps of the Trinita, St. John Later&n. They 
had made the proper remarks about unshaven 
priests, about the scarlet German seminarians; they 
had gravely attended Sung Matins in the little 
Gothic church of All Saints in the Via Babnino on 
their two Sundays, at eleven, in best clothes ; having 
previously talked out loud during high mass at St. 
Peter’s, sitting on camp-stools; they had cheered 
the little king as he sat on a high seat in a dog-cart 
beside his tall wife; they had agreed with an English 
clergyman that Cardinal Merry del Val was an 
unscrupulous and incompetent diplomatist. They 
209 


210 


THE COWARD 


had conducted themselves, in fact, harmlessly and 
decorously, and vaguely felt that their horizons were 
enlarged. 

And of real Rome, of course, they had seen noth- 
ing at all. Figures had moved before them — the 
insolent light-blue cloaks of soldiers who resembled 
French tram-conductors; seedy-looking priests who 
went hurriedly and softly with downcast eyes; coun- 
trymen — real ones, not the sham ones of Trinita — 
asleep in little canopied carts that roared over the 
cobblestones; endless companies of handsomely 
bearded bourgeois clerks and tradesmen, pacing 
slowly up and down the Corso and eyeing brutally 
every female figure in range. They had seen crum- 
bling ruins against the sky; little churches, rather 
dingy, looking squeezed and asleep, between new 
white houses with balconies and uncountable win- 
dows; and they had understood absolutely less than 
nothing (since they had misconceived the whole) 
of all that their eyes and ears had taken in. They 
had believed themselves, for example, to be by na- 
ture on the side of the Government and the new 
hotels and the trams and the clean white squares; 
they had not understood that that which they dis- 
missed as ecclesiasticism and intransigeance was the 
only element with which they had anything in com- 
mon, and that this, and this only, had developed 
their aristocracy in the past as well as being its only 


THE COWARD 


21 1 


hope for the future. They had not understood that 
all this, in terms of Italy, was a translation of their 
own instincts and circumstances at home. 

The two lovers had behaved with marvellous dis- 
cretion. Austin, for instance, saw plainly that 
something was up, and was not furnished with the 
faintest handle for rebuke. He found himself al- 
lowed to escort Gertie, to hand her into the little 
cabs, and to give her useful and accurate informa- 
tion, to his heart’s content; and scarcely once had 
Val been otherwise than reasonable and friendly — 
he seemed quite content to pair off with May and 
was hardly ever irritable and fractious. 

For the bliss that the boy went through was occu- 
pation enough for him. The days went by in a 
delicious dream ; since, with the understanding that 
was now so perfectly established, it contented him 
quite tolerably to know that Gertie was next door 
to him, sat opposite to him at table, and, now and 
then, caught his eyes. Of course they had inter- 
views and exchanged sentences — in dark churches, 
on terraces ; again and again the two were separated 
from the rest, yet always naturally and sometimes 
almost unnoticeably ; and for one delicious hour 
they had sat together on the balconies of their re- 
spective bedrooms after dark, one low railing only 
between them, looking out on to the garden as the 


212 


THE COWARD 


full moon rose. . . . But it was all done with 

an intense and strenuous natural air, which, if it 
would not have deceived elders, was quite enough 
for Austin and May. 

It was their last evening but two, however; and 
the strain of living up to the Ideal, coupled with the 
fact that the sands were running out, was beginning 
to have its effect on Val. He was a little silent this 
evening — silent with a touch of feverishness. 

They had been playing bridge since dinner, at a 
little table in the corner of the big hall where smok- 
ing was permitted, when May, putting up the cards 
again into their leather case, had announced the 
Pincian for the next evening. (The Vatican galler- 
ies were to be inspected in the morning and the Pala- 
tine in the afternoon.) 

“ I’ve got to see a man at the Embassy/' an- 
nounced Austin; “ I think I’d better go in the after- 
noon.” Austin was a little too much pleased with 
“ the man at the Embassy,” and had mentioned him 
several times. He had just begun to be aware that 
importance in the world was as valuable as at Eton. 
Val sat back in silence and took out his cigarette- 
case. May stood up. 

“ Well, I’m off to bed. . . . All right. We’ll 

settle other things in the morning. . . . Com- 

ing, Gertie ? ” 


THE COWARD 


213 

Gertie rose obediently, and Val indulged himself 
with a good look at her. 

She really was startlingly pretty; and the hum 
of talk at the next table died away as she stood up. 
May was extremely ordinary beside her. 

For Gertie’s southern blood seemed less exotic 
here in Rome. She was in the very height of 
health; and this tearing about in the Easter sun of 
Italy had deepened the wholesome pallor of her 
face. She was in white this evening, with a blue 
flower in her hair, and suggestions of embroidery 
here and there upon her dress; she carried on her 
white shoulders a scarf, as the evenings were chilly; 
and her dark eyes blazed with tiredness and pleas- 
ure. She wore Val’s turquoise on her finger. She 
looked upright and bright and keen — as she nodded 
to the boys, and moved off behind May with that 
admirable arrogance that a certain kind of breeding 
and life seems to confer. . . . 

“ Play you montana,” said Val suddenly. 

Austin sank down again, with just a touch of 
indulgence that Val sometimes found trying. 

“ Well, one game, if you like,” he said. 

Montana js perhaps the most trying game in- 
vented by man — to temperaments, at any rate, that 
are in the least degree nervous. It is a kind of 


214 


THE COWARD 


double patience; but the excitement lies in the fact 
that the packs which are gradually built up are com- 
mon to both sides, with result that the virtue of pa- 
tience is perhaps the last one required. One needs 
quick sight, unerring judgment, immense decision of 
character, ruthlessness, and, above all, a kind of 
intoxicated yet clear-headed dash such as a cavalry- 
leader might need. There come moments when the 
losing player, fascinated and paralysed, has all that 
he can do not to cry out that his opponent must be 
cheating, as he sees cards, fired with the speed of 
Maxim bullets, flying to their several places. There 
come moments when the winning player, after such 
a run, when his cards have shifted and melted like 
magic, has all that he can do not to laugh and tri- 
umph aloud. It is practically impossible to smoke, 
so swift and violent is the game; it is sometimes 
difficult even to breathe aright. . . . 

Twenty minutes later Val, a little flushed, swept 
up his cards and began to reshuffle. 

“ That’s nine points to you,” he said. “ It was 
that knave I dropped, you know.” 

“ I said only one game,” said Austin. “ I’m ” 

“ Oh ! that’s rot. It was a wretched game. . . . 
That knave did me. We must have one more.” 

Austin lifted his eyebrows with a deliberate 
weariness. He took up his cards. 

“ Well, a short one. Up to twenty.” 


THE COWARD 


215 

Val said nothing, but began to deal out his pre- 
liminary seven heaps. 

Contempt was never very far away from Austin’s 
view of Val. It was, as has been hinted before, the 
main sort of self-protection that he allowed himself. 
Certainly he was superior to Val in practically every- 
thing. He rode better, shot better, had been more 
successful in work, had been in “ Pop ” at Eton, 
and on the Committee of the Pitt Club at Cam- 
bridge. But Val was never very far behind him, 
and occasionally shot up with a kind of fitful bril- 
liance, as, for instance, when he had stopped Gertie’s 
runaway horse. He had too a kind of interior in- 
tensity which Austin lacked — a fervour and a posi- 
tiveness that might be dangerous some day. For 
Austin’s peace of mind, then, an arranged attitude 
towards Val was necessary; he must be self-con- 
trolled and modest, where Val tended to be spas- 
modic and boastful ; and together with these ingredi- 
ents there was added, as has been said, a touch of 
contempt. 

Take card-games, for example. At purely intel- 
lectual games Austin was undoubtedly the superior ; 
at games which required dash and speed Val won at 
least as often as he lost. But Val, Austin reflected, 
showed too much keenness for absolutely good 
form ; he was apt to sparkle too much when he won 


2l6 


THE COWARD 


and to be too silent when he lost. Montana was a 
kind of symbol between them. Val won perhaps 
three times out of four; and it was necessary there- 
fore to allow him to play this sometimes when he 
had been unfortunate at bridge. This restored 
serenity to the atmosphere and gave Austin a sense 
of generous rectitude. 

They played in silence for a few minutes; and 
indeed, with the exception of sudden cries and ex- 
clamations, it is difficult to play montana except in 
silence. Val began well; his cards fell right; and 
he called for a truce to order something to drink. 
Austin regarded him coldly, and determined to win. 

“ I think mine ” said Val firmly, producing a 
crumpled nine of hearts from beneath Austin’s ; the 
two had dashed upon the uncovered eight almost 
exactly at the same moment. 

Obviously it was Val’s. Austin registered one 
more resolution, and drew his chair an inch nearer. 
Ten minutes later one of those developments ap- 
peared which occasionally do assert themselves 
inexplicably. Every card of Austin’s fell right; 
every card of Val’s wrong. Twice Val flew into a 
breach a fraction of a second late. . . . There 

was a whirling of hands and cards. . . . Aus- 

tin’s heaps vanished like snow in sunshine. Val 
fumbled badly; dropped a card; and when he had it. 
again Austin’s heaps had gone. 


THE COWARD 


217 


“ That was a pretty good run,” remarked Austin, 
flushed with victory, beginning to push back his 
chair. (It was plain that the “twenty ” was more 
than reached.) 

Now Val was in that indescribably irritated state 
that games do seem sometimes to produce in their 
players. He was the more annoyed as he consid- 
ered himself Austin’s superior in montana. 

“We generally use only one hand,” he said in a 
head-voice, beginning to rake his widespread cards 
together. 

“ That’s what I thought,” said Austin, perceiving 
that war was declared. 

“ I thought I saw you use two,” pursued Val, 
with the same air of deadly detachment. “ When 
I was picking up the card I had dropped.” 

“ You thought wrong then,” said Austin. “ I 
did nothing of the sort.” 

Val smiled deliberately and carefully with one 
side of his mouth. 

Anger rose within Austin like a torrent. He 
looked quickly from side to side, and saw that the 
room was nearly empty. Then he stood up, leaning 
forward with his hands upon the table. 

“ You shouldn’t play games if you can’t keep 
your temper,” he said in a sharp undertone. “To 
accuse me of cheating is simply ridiculous; and you 
know it.” 


2l8 


THE COWARD 


Then he wheeled away without a word, seeing 
Val’s pale face flush suddenly into fury. 

(n) 

When a storm breaks after a prolonged drought, 
it is usually rather a severe one; since weather 
averages must be preserved at all costs; and the 
quarrel of the two brothers took the same course. 
They had not openly quarrelled or insulted one 
another for at least three months. Val had been at 
Cambridge and Austin in London nearly all that 
time, and there simply had been no opportunity at 
all until the journey; as has been remarked, Val’s 
Ideal had kept him pacific ever since they had left 
Victoria Station. 

The girls, of course, noticed nothing next morn- 
ing, except that the two were alternately polite to 
one another and unconscious of one another’s pres- 
ence ; but for all that the fires burned deeply. Aus- 
tin kept on telling himself that Val was an ill-man- 
nered cub who could not keep his temper, and Val 
kept on telling himself that Austin had cheated 
(though he knew perfectly well he had not), and 
that he was simply impossible. . . . 

They inspected the Vatican galleries in the morn- 
ing, with their sense of duty more apparent than that 
of beauty, and got home in unusually good time for 


THE COWARD 


219 


lunch. But they set out in two cabs — Austin and 
Gertie together in the one, Val and May in the other 
— resolutely enough, at half-past two. 

They were more polite than ever to one another 
on the Palatine — polite with irony as visible as a 
dagger-blade among flowers. Val offered Austin 
his Baedeker, and begged him to read aloud the in- 
formation, as he read so well; and Austin returned 
with many apologies a small tin match-box which 
he noticed fall out of Val’s pocket as he pulled out 
his handkerchief. Gertie eyed the two sharply once 
or twice, and then was more affectionate than ever 
to May. 

To tell the truth, all four were becoming a little 
worn out with sight-seeing. It is not easy in the 
Italian climate to take an intelligent interest in anti- 
quities and churches, every day for a fortnight, 
from ten to twelve and two to five, without showing 
signs of weariness or irritation ; and an atmosphere 
of relief became very visible as they emerged again 
at last by the Arch of Titus. 

“ I say, it isn’t four yet,” said Austin. . . . 

May sighed. 

“ I can’t help it,” she said. “ And I’m just dying 
for tea. Let’s go home and have it, and then walk 
up the Pincian afterwards before sunset. I’m 
nearly dead.” 


220 


THE COWARD 


“ Our cabs are waiting over there,” said Val, 
nodding towards the Coliseum. 

Something of regret, however — in fact, a real 
and inexplicable depression — came on him as he 
drove back with Gertie. (They had changed part- 
ners this time.) It seemed to him as if the even- 
ing and the morrow that still remained to them, 
the journey home together, and the three or four 
days that Gertie would spend at Medhurst, were 
little better than mockeries. . . . He said so, 

sitting carefully apart in his corner in the little 
victoria, lest the others should turn and see them. 

“ Gertie,” he said, “ I feel beastly. Only one 
more day here, and then that vile Cambridge.” 
(It was sweet to them both to talk in this way — 
as husband and wife might talk, without endear- 
ments. They had discovered its peculiarly exquisite 
aroma during the journey out.) She assumed the 
maternal pose. 

“ My dear boy, don’t be ridiculous. We’ve had a 
heavenly time; and there’s . . . there’s nearly 

a week more altogether.” 

Val sighed again, looking rather cross. 

“ Is anything the matter between you and Aus- 
tin?” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Val wearily. “ He can’t behave 
himself at cards. And I told him so.” 


THE COWARD 


221 


A bubble of laughter broke from the girl. 

“ Oh ! you boys,” she said. 

“ Austin really won’t do at all, you know,” went 
on Val, with the air of forty-five finding fault with 
seventeen. “ He cannot keep his temper.” 

“ Tell me what happened.” 

“ I asked him whether he hadn’t used two hands 
by mistake at montana. Lots of people do, you 
know. And he flew into a violent temper and be- 
came offensive.” 

“ And you?” 

“ I said nothing whatever.” 

“ Oh ! you boys,” said Gertie again. “ Really, 
you’re old enough to have got over that sort of 
thing.” 

“ I can’t help it if Austin behaves like a cad,” 
pursued Val, intent on his wrongs, and really not 
conscious that he had misrepresented anything. 
Had he not told the literal truth? 

“ I think you’re rather annoying sometimes to 
him, you know, Val,” went on Gertie, seriously. 
(She happened to remember at this moment how 
great a woman’s influence ought to be for good.) 

Val shrugged his shoulders slightly and spread 
his hands in a little Italian gesture. 

“ Oh ! I must put up with him, I know. But he’s 
the kind of person you can’t ask favours from, you 


222 


THE COWARD 


know. I asked him to play last night, and this is 
the result.” 

“But you won’t quarrel any more with him?” 
“Oh! I shall be polite to him all right. But, 
as I say, no more favours from him.” 


CHAPTER V 


(i) 

64 , V7’ES,” pronounced Austin, after a prolonged 
**■ and judicial look, “ it’s very wonderful.” 

“ That’s settled then,” murmured Val under his 
breath. 

The four were standing together on the top ter- 
race of the Pincian at sunset. 

They had been told by the English chaplain that 
this was one of the things to be seen; and May, at 
least, who really wished to take an intelligent 
interest in everything, had gathered that an appre- 
ciation of it was one of the marks of the initiate; 
that while ordinary Philistines just charged about 
St. Peter’s and the Catacombs, the truly under- 
standing soul came and looked at Rome from the 
Pincian at sunset; so she had insisted on a second 
visit here. 

What they saw from that place was certainly re- 
markable and beautiful, indeed “ very wonderful,” 
as Austin had most correctly observed. They stood 
on the very edge of a terraced precipice, their hands 
223 


224 


THE COWARD 


resting on a balustrade, looking out over the whole 
of medieval Rome bathed in a dusty glory of blue 
and gold ; the roofs, broken here and there by domes 
and spires, stretched completely round the half- 
circle to right and left, in a kind of flat amphitheatre 
of which the arena, crawling with cabs and pedes- 
trians, was the Piazza del Popolo, where Luther 
walked after saying mass in the church on the right. 
All this was lovely enough — the smoke went up 
straight, delicate as lawn against the glorious even- 
ing sky; cypresses rose, tall and sombre, beneath 
them, and barred the sky far away like blots of 
black against an open furnace-door; and sounds 
came up here, mellow and gentle — the crack of 
whips, bells, cries, the roll of wheels, across the 
cobbles of the Piazza. But that to which both eye 
and thought returned again and again was the vast 
bed of purple shadow, lit with rose, that dominated 
the whole, straight in front, and is called the dome 
of St. Peter’s. It rested there, like a flower de- 
scending from heaven, and at this very instant 
the sun, hidden behind it, shone through the win- 
dows, clean through from side to side, making it 
as unsubstantial as a shell of foam. It hung there, 
itself the symbol of a benediction, as if held by an 
invisible thread from the very throne of God, sup- 
ported from below, it seemed, by earthly buildings 
that had sprung up to meet it, and now pushed and 


THE COWARD 


225 


jostled that they might rest beneath its shadow. 
Beyond, again, fine as lacework, trees stood up, 
minute and delicate and distant, like black feathers 
seen against firelight. Only, this firelight, deepen- 
ing to rose and crimson as they looked, filled the 
whole sky with flame, satisfying the eye as water a 
thirsty throat. 

This then was what they saw. They would be 
able to describe all this later, and even, after con- 
sulting Baedeker, to name the domes and towers 
that helped to make up the whole — the white dome 
of the Jewish synagogue, for instance, that mocked 
and caricatured the gentle giant beyond, like a 
street-boy imitating a king. They would be able 
to wave their hands, for lack of description. . . . 
They would be able to rave vaguely about Italy and 
its colours. Austin would be able to draw striking 
contrasts between modern Rome and ancient Athens 
(which he had conscientiously visited in the com- 
pany of Eton masters two years ago). And they 
both would be able to show that they belonged to 
the elect company of the initiates, in that they would 
say that what impressed them far more than St. 
Peter’s or St. John Lateran was the view of Rome 
at sunset from the Pincian. 

Now of course there is a great deal more to see 
from the Pincian at sunset than what has been set 


226 


THE COWARD 


down here. It is the history of the human race, and 
the love of God, and the story of how One “ came 
to His own and His own received Him not,” and 
the significance of the City of the World, and the 
conjunction of small human affairs with Eternity, 
and their reconciliation with it through the airy 
shell of foam which, as a matter of realistic fact, 
consists of uncountable tons of masonry — in fact, 
the reconciliation of all paradoxes, and the solution 
of all doubts, and the incarnation of all mysteries, 
and the final complete satisfaction of the Creator 
with the creature and of the creature with the Crea- 
tor — all these things, with their correlatives, find 
voice and shape and colour in the view of Rome 
from the Pincian at sunset. For here, where the 
watchers stand, is modern Italy, gross, fleshly, com- 
placent, and blind. There are white marble busts 
here, of bearded men and decadent poets, and wholly 
unimportant celebrities, standing in rows beneath 
the ilexes like self-conscious philosophers; and chat- 
tering crowds surge to and fro ; and men eye women, 
and women, with their noses in the air, lean back in 
rather shabby carriages and pretend not to see the 
men; and the seminarians go by, swift processions 
of boys, walking rapidly, as troops on alien ground, 
with the sleeves of their sopranos flying behind 
them, intent on getting back to their seminaries 
before Ave Maria rings ; and belated children scream 


THE COWARD 


227 


and laugh — thin-legged, frilled children, with pee- 
vish eyes, who call one another Ercole and Louise 
and Tito and Elena; and bourgeois families in silk 
and broadcloth, with the eyes of Augustus and 
Poppsea and the souls of dirty shrimps, pace 
solemnly about, arm in arm, and believe themselves 
fashionable and enlightened and modern. All these 
things and persons are here, and it is from this 
world and from this standpoint that one looks back 
and forward through the centuries — back to the 
roots that crept along the Catacombs, that pushed 
up stems in the little old churches with white 
marble choirs, and that blossomed at last into that 
astounding, full-orbed flower that hangs there, full 
of gold and blue and orange and sunlight; and on, 
from that flower to the seed it is shedding in every 
land, and to the Forest of the Future. . . . 

(n) 

It is probable that Val was the only one of the 
four who perceived that there was more than he 
actually saw (if we except Austin, who was already 
drawing mental comparisons between this view and 
that of the Acropolis at Athens, to the advantage, 
of course, of the latter; for this one had reached 
precisely that stage of mental development in which 
it appears truly broad-minded to prefer Paganism 
to Christianity under all possible circumstances). 


228 


THE COWARD 


Yet Val could put nothing of it into words, even 
to himself. But he was strung up by various emo- 
tions — by his proximity to Gertie, whose hand 
was almost touching his upon the balustrade; by 
his knowledge that the day after to-morrow they 
would have to leave for England by the eight o’clock 
train in the morning; by the quarrel with Austin, 
which still gently vibrated his heart-strings — by 
all these emotions acting upon a highly strung and 
imaginative nature. 

Gertie was feeling nothing particular, except a 
general sense of being surrounded by extreme 
beauty, and a sensation, half of pleasure, half of 
angry and resentful disgust, towards a young man 
with a moustache who was staring straight at her 
from an abutment of the terrace not a dozen yards 
away. She recognized him also as having stared at 
her before, when she went to post a letter at S. 
Silvestro after lunch. . . . 

But Val really did feel something vague and 
tumultuous as he stared out at the view, quite un- 
conscious of the young man. He felt that emotions 
and sensations were all about him — suggestions 
which he could not hear and glimpses which he could 
not see. He felt that all this meant more than it 
said; that there were innuendoes and hints which 
were too subtle, prophecies and predictions shouted 
too largely to be articulate. . . . 


THE COWARD 


229 

He turned away at last with a jerk, annoyed that 
he could not understand. 

“ Let’s have a look from the terrace below,” he 
said to Gertie; “ on the way down.” 

The view from the terrace below is good, but it 
is not so good, although there is a charm in the 
flatter angle from which the city is seen. It was 
empty when they reached it, and Val stood a mo- 
ment staring with Gertie beside him. Then he re- 
membered the other two, and wondered if they were 
following. It was difficult to make out their heads 
in the frieze of faces that fringed the parapet above, 
and he went a dozen steps to one side, in the direc- 
tion from which they themselves had come down, 
to see if they were following; and as he glanced up 
Austin and May appeared at the head of the steps. 

“ Oh ! there you are,” cried May, waving to him. 

Val nodded ; and as he turned back to go to Gertie, 
he saw a young man come towards her from the 
opposite side, raising his hat, and smiling so that 
he showed an even row of white teeth. He was 
holding a flower in his fingers which he had evi- 
dently just taken from his buttonhole. Then he 
kissed this flower and held it out, saying something. 

Val stared a moment, wondering whether the girl 
had by any chance suddenly come across a friend; 
then, as he went forward, Gertie took a swift step 


230 


THE COWARD 


towards him, and in her white face he saw terror 
and anger. 

“ He ... he spoke to me ... he in- 
sulted me,” she said in a harsh, frightened whisper. 

Val stared at her, not wholly taking in the situa- 
tion. 

“Who? . . . I don’t understand.” 

“ That man,” she said. “ He’s been following me 
. . . since this morning. He ... he in- 

sulted me.” 

Val’s heart beat suddenly and furiously at the 
base of his throat, and a mist seemed to pass be- 
tween his eyes and the brilliant air. An enormous 
emotion seized him, which he thought was anger. 

He took a couple of steps forward. . . . 

“ How . . . how dare you, sir ? ” he stam- 

mered roughly, in English. 

The young man stood, apparently unperturbed, 
still smiling, and holding his. rejected flower del- 
icately between his thin brown fingers. He was 
smartly, but not extravagantly dressed; he was 
obviously not of the shopkeeper class. Val noticed 
even then that he seemed to be a gentleman. 

The young man made a little gesture with his 
cane, still smiling, as if to wave Val out of the way, 
and again extended slightly his flower. . . . 

A gasp broke from Gertie behind; and Val, 
impelled partly by a sudden anger that burst upwards 


THE COWARD 


231 


at the contemptuous slight he had received, and 
partly by a sense that something violent was expected 
of him, with a quick breath stepped forward and 
slapped the brown smiling face with all his force, 
across the cheek nearest to him. . . . 

It was amazing how swiftly there was a group 
about them. 

The Italian had changed in an instant from a 
smiling gallant into a tiger-cat. He had sprung 
back at the blow, and had seemed to hesitate, with 
clenched fists and blazing eyes — (he had dropped 
his malacca cane at the onslaught) — to hesitate 
whether to fly at Val, all teeth and claws, or to as- 
sault him more reputably. The flower lay on the 
middle step between them, like a spot of blood. 

Val stood waiting, prepared to repel attack, and 
beginning to wonder, as his anger, relieved by the 
blow, sank swiftly, whether or no he had done 
the right thing. He was conscious, the instant after 
the blow, while he yet waited for the riposte, that a 
babble of voices and cries had broken out from the 
frieze of heads that looked down from the upper 
terrace. But he stood there, a fine figure of gal- 
lantry, upright, white- faced and determined. 

Then, almost before the Italian had recovered his 
balance, steps tore down the stairs on either side, 
and a crying, babbling group surrounded the three ; 


232 


THE COWARD 


for Austin had turned the corner as the blow was 
given and had dashed forward to his brother’s side. 

It was difficult for Austin to remember afterwards 
the exact course which events took. He had been 
just in time to see Val’s hand whirl out and to hear 
the sound of the slap; and then, telling May to go 
straight home with Gertie, was at Val’s side in a 
moment. There was no time to ask explanations, 
and indeed, these were not necessary. Three or four 
men were by the Italian’s side an instant later, hav- 
ing run down the steps from above ; and one Austin 
noticed particularly — a small, soldierly-looking 
man, with fierce grey moustaches, who seized the 
young man by the arm, though with a certain air of 
deference all through, and began both to soothe and 
question in torrential Italian. Behind them the 
group increased rapidly. 

Then the young man seemed to recover himself. 
He pushed the pld soldier aside, and, his face red- 
dened on the left cheek by Val’s blow, came a step 
forward. 

“ You are an Englishman, sir? ” he asked, with a 
strong accent ; “. . . a gentleman ? ” 

Val nodded. 

The Italian, who was recovering his self-com- 
mand with extraordinary swiftness, stooped and 
took up his cane. Then he lifted it. 


THE COWARD 


233 


“ Is this necessary, sir ? ” 

Val recoiled half a step at the suggested threat. 

“ What’s all this ? ” cried Austin sharply. 

Val turned a white face on him. 

“ The . . . the beast insulted Gertie . . . 

he offered her a flower.” 

The Italian lowered his stick, and said something 
rapidly to the soldier. Then he took off his hat 
politely, and slipped away into the group behind, 
who made way for him to pass. The soldier stepped 
forward. 

“ Your . . i your carta, sir,” he said. 

“ He wants your card,” said Austin. “ Summons 
for assault. Make haste, Val. . . . We don’t 

want another scene.” 

Val fumbled in his pockets — the soldier waiting 
politely, stroking his moustache and eyeing the two 
Englishmen carefully — and drew out his cigarette- 
case. He gave his card to Austin. 

“ The card, sir,” said Austin in tolerable Italian, 
holding it out.. “ And we are staying at the Hotel 
des Etrangers.” 

The soldier took it, glanced at it, and put it in his 
pocket. Then he drew out his own case, and took 
out his own card and offered it. It was inscribed 
with the name of General Antonio Villanuova, and 
was surmounted by a small coronet. Austin took it, 
trying to assume the same competent and assured air 


234 


THE COWARD 


as the other. Then the two lifted their hats; while 
the soldier’s heels clicked together as he bowed ; and 
the next moment Austin had Val by the arm, and 
was hurrying him away through the crowd and down 
the steps towards their hotel. 

(m) 

“ Now tell me the whole thing,” he said, as soon 
as they had got clear of the people and were striding 
down the steep slope. 

Val related it, his voice shaking and quavering 
still with excitement. 

“ So I slapped his dirty face for him,” he added. 

“ It’s a confounded nuisance,” said Austin. 
“ Now there’ll be a summons and the devil to pay. 
And Lord knows when we shall get away.” 

(He was faintly conscious that this language 
lacked repose; but he couldn’t bother to pick his 
words just now. There was annoyance also in his 
mind at the fact that it was Val who was the oc- . 
casion of the trouble.) 

“ I don’t care a damn ! ” exclaimed Val. “ I’d do 
it again twenty times over ... the dirty black- 
guard ! ” 

He seemed all a-shake again with excitement now 
that the crisis was past. 

“Well, if we can slip away the day after to- 


THE COWARD 


235 

Why, 


morrow before they can take any steps 
there are the girls waiting for us ! ” 

Something of Val’s old dreams seemed to come 
true as he walked back to the hotel in silence with 
Gertie and the others. He said nothing, nor did 
she; they walked together without speaking, while 
Austin summed up the situation in terse sentences, 
and speculated hopefully on the slowness of Italian 
justice. 

“ There wasn’t a blessed gendarme in sight,” he 
said. “ Why, in England we’d have half a dozen 
policemen in two minutes, all taking notes.” 

“ I think it’s scandalous,” said May energetically. 
. . . “ Oh, Val ! ... If you’d been 

stabbed.” 

There was no doubt as to the sentiments of the 
company, and Val found it all wonderfully sweet. 
For once, at any rate, he had behaved with decision 
and courage, and all for the sake of and in the 
presence of the Beloved. Stopping the runaway 
horse was nothing to this. . . . He walked in 

a dream of delight across the cobbled square, rather 
shaky still, but conscious, of his manhood. His 
pulses tingled to his finger-tips and beat in his head 
a joyous rhythm. The suggestion that he might 
have been stabbed added to his delight : he had faced 
that too, then, unflinching : everyone knew that 


236 


THE COWARD 


Italians produced stilettos on the smallest provo- 
cation. 

He strode on then, confident and exultant, wel- 
coming rather than otherwise the thought of police- 
court proceedings : it would underline and emphasise 
what he had done. He eyed a cabman who shouted 
at him to get out of the way, proudly and disdain- 
fully: he went past the hall-porter, standing laced 
cap in hand, as if unconscious of his presence. 

There was one delicious moment at the top of the 
stairs. May and Austin were in front, still talking; 
and Gertie turned round full and looked at him. 
Her eyes were bright as if with tears, and her parted 
lips moved : she gave him her hand, and he kissed it 
with quite an Italian air. 

(IV) 

Dinner was a joyous affair that night. The band 
was playing out of sight in the winter garden ; and 
the four had a round table to themselves, placed 
where in the pauses of conversation the music 
sounded clear and inspiriting, like an undercurrent 
of gallant thought. They talked briskly and ex- 
citedly, conscious of adventure; and they rallied Val 
cheerfully on the probability of an escort appearing 
before the ice-pudding, armed cap-a-pie with revol- 
vers, swords, and breastplates, to conduct him to a 
dungeon. 


THE COWARD 


237 


“ The guests will rise,” cried Gertie, “ like a stage 
crowd; the band will cease and the lights go down. 
Then I shall shriek and faint in red limelight which 
will change slowly to blue. Gongs will then begin 
to sound, and ” 

“ And I shall fling myself upon Val,” remarked 
May, “ and say that they shall only reach him over 
his sister’s dead body.” 

“ Don’t talk so loud,” said Austin vehemently. 
" There’s a clergyman over there ” 

“ He’s an Archdeacon,” said Gertie. “ He puts 
on his gaiters for dinner. He shall advance with 
upraised hand to denounce the tyranny of a priest- 
ridden monarchy.” 

Val listened with growing delight. It seemed to 
him that this manner of treating an arrest that 
seemed really quite possible was entirely worthy of 
Englishmen in Italy. This potty little country, it 
appeared to him, could really not be taken seriously. 
And, at any rate, it was good to play the fool. He 
would play the fool, he determined, even if the 
comic-opera gendarme did arrive. 

But ice-pudding came and was eaten undisturbed ; 
and then cheese-straws, and finally some excellent 
fruit; and then Austin leaned back and ordered 
Chartreuse for four. 

“ To drink Val’s health,” said May. 


238 


THE COWARD 


This was solemnly done. May made a short 
speech, without rising, proposing the health of the 
preserver of all female sufferers, “ coupled with the 
health of our fellow-countryman, Mr. Valentine 
Medd, who on this auspicious occasion ” and then 
May laughed. 

But Val, glancing round the eyes of the three, 
caught and held an instant those of Gertie. 

“ Don’t be long,” said Austin, as they got up 
from the table. “ We’ll keep a table till you come 
down.” 

“ We’ve just five things to pack which we 
bought to-day,” said May. “ There’s some lace, 
and . . 

“ Oh! go on, and make haste,” said Val. “ And 
Gertie’s my partner to-night.” 

Their table was vacant, and Val plunged into a 
deep chair beyond it in the corner, whence he could 
watch for Gertie’s coming. He loved to think of 
the moment when she would come rustling across 
the hall, and the heads turned to look at her. . . . 

He lit a cigarette. 

“ Seriously,” said Austin, “ if there is a row I’ll 
go straight to my man at the Embassy. He’s half 
Italian himself, you know, and he’ll know their little 
ways.” 


THE COWARD 


239 


“Oh! that’s bosh,” said Val. “It’ll be just a 
fine to-morrow, if there is anything. But they won’t 
dare to do it. The blackguard’ll funk the story 
coming out. He looked like a gentleman, too.” 

“ Well, but Hullo ! here’s the porter coming. 

I wonder if it’s us he wants.” 

Val was conscious of a faint quickening of his 
heart as the great man, carrying his gold-laced cap, 
threaded his way between the tables. In his other 
hand he carried a salver. 

“ By George, it is ! ” he said. 

The man came up to them and extended the 
salver, disclosing with his thumb a card printed 
with a name and a small coronet. He held it im- 
partially between the two brothers. 

“ Which of us is it for? ” 

“ For Mr. Valentine Medd,” said the man. 

Val took it, read it, and passed it to Austin. 

“ It’s the General,” he said. (His lips were gone 
dry and he licked them. ) 

“ Look here,” said Austin, getting up ; “ I’d better 
go instead. I know more Italian. They’ve prob- 
ably come to apologise; and one must be decently 
polite if they have. Where is the gentleman?” 

“ There are two gentlemen, sir. They’re in the 
little sallone next the hall-door.” 

“ Very good,” said Austin. 

He nodded to Val and went. 


240 


THE COWARD 


(v) 

Val roused himself and sat up five minutes later, 
as the two girls came threading their way, exactly 
as he had pictured, between the tables. The heads 
did turn to look at Gertie, but she seemed wholly 
unconscious. Her face was radiant and smiling. 

“ At last,” she said. . . . “ Where’s 

Austin ? ” 

“ The beggars have come to apologise,” growled 
Val. “ He’s interviewing them.” 

“ My gracious! . . . Well, we’ll soon hear. 

Let’s play jacoby till he comes.” 

Val had had a very bad five minutes. Certain 
vague suspicions that he had resolutely silenced 
before recurred to him with great intensity. He 
refused, even now, to consider them seriously; but 
they were there. He had reflected that Italians 
were a queer people, with queer ideas. . . . 

One never knew quite what view they would take of 
things. . . . 

But with the coming of the two girls things looked 
better. They brought naturalness and familiarity 
with them, and the home atmosphere ; and Val dealt 
for jacoby with considerable verve, commenting once 
or twice on Austin’s probable adventures. 

But the game was doomed never to be played. 


THE COWARD 


241 


for as Gertie selected her card, once more the hall- 
porter came threading his way among the tables. 

“ Eh? ” said Val, as the man suddenly stood op- 
posite him. 

“ Mr. Medd. ... he wishes to see you, sir.” 

Val stood up, commanding himself with an effort. 

“Well, I suppose I must go and receive it in 
person,” he said. “ Don’t look at my hand, any- 
body, while I’m away.” 

The man led him, not to the sallone next the hall- 
door, but to a second smaller one which opened out 
of it by glass doors. He pushed the door open and 
Val went in. Austin was standing there, looking 
strangely pale and agitated. 

“ Look here,” he said sharply, glancing to see 
that the two doors were closed, “ we’re in a mess. 
Don’t talk loud; they’re in the next room.” 

“Who are?” 

“ That blasted General and another chap. . . . 

It seems the chap whose face you slapped is a Prince, 
or next door to one. . . .” 

He indicated a card lying on the table. Val took 
it up ; it was inscribed with the name of Don Adriano 
Valentini-Mezzia, and was topped by a crown and a 
crowd of flourishes. Very small, down in the 
corner, ran the words “ Palazzo Valentini-Mezzia, 
Roma.” 


24 2 


THE COWARD 


“ He’s a younger brother of the Prince,” said 
Austin. 

“ Well?” 

“ Well, there’s the devil of a row. I told them 
plainly what I thought — that if brothers of Princes 
go about insulting English ladies they must expect 
to have their faces slapped. They shrugged their 
shoulders at that, and said something. Good Lord ! 
I wish I was better at Italian.” 

“ But what the devil do they want?” said Val 
vindictively. “ Haven’t they come to apologise ? ” 

“ No, they haven’t,” Austin almost shouted sud- 
denly. “ They’ve come to bring his challenge to you 
— a duel. And if you don’t fight they swear he’ll 
horsewhip you publicly. It’s perfectly outrageous.” 

Val sat down. Then he took out his cigarette- 
case. He had still enough sense to notice that his 
hands were shaking too violently for him to take out 
a cigarette, and he remained still, balancing the case 
in his hands. 

“ Are you serious ? ” 

“ Serious ! . . . Why. . . . Good Lord ! 

They know all about us, I tell you. They even know 
we’re going by the eight o’clock train on Thurs- 
day; so, to suit our convenience, they say, they’ve 
arranged a meeting for to-morrow morning at five. 
They’ve got some beastly garden somewhere, where 
they say we shall be undisturbed. And they have 


THE COWARD 


243 

the cheek to ask whether the arrangements are 
satisfactory.” 

“ What did you say ? ” 

“ I told them to go to hell. I said that English- 
men didn’t fight duels. I said they fought with 
their fists or not at all. I said I’d go to the Am- 
bassador.” 

“ And what did they say ? ” 

“ They laughed. They said that that was not 
usual in Italy, and that if English gentlemen chose 
to honour Italy with their presence, they must 
further honour her by conforming to her customs. 
They put it all so infernally well and politely too.” 

Austin was completely bewildered. He knew 
nothing whatever of Italian ways, and knew that he 
knew nothing. All the Englishman in him told him 
to flatly refuse such ridiculous suggestions, but the 
Medd in him equally strongly asserted that one 
must behave like a gentleman. He had thought of 
telephoning to his friend at the Embassy, but then 
again he was wondering as to whether this was a 
decent thing to do or not. . . . 

“ What do you think? ” asked Val in a dry voice 
that sounded oddly in his own ears. 

“ I don’t know what to think. . . .” 

(Austin began to bite his nails — a thing he was 


244 


THE COWARD 


always most particular not to do.) . . . “I 

don’t know what to think. It seems to me all a 
lot of tommy-rot, of course, but one doesn’t know. 
. . . He’s the brother of a Prince, you know, 

and he ought to know.” 

Val lifted his head as if to speak, but Austin’s 
next words silenced him. 

“ And one doesn’t like to ask anybody. It looks 
like sneaking and trying to get off. . . . Look 

here; will you come and see them yourself? ” 

Val swallowed in his throat. 

“ Wait,” he said. “ Did they say anything about 
weapons ? ” 

“ Yes, rapiers.” 

“ Wait,” said Val again. “ Yes . . . I’ll 

see them. And I’ll fight.” 

“ Eh?” 

Val stood up. His face was like ashes and his 
eyes like coals, but he carried his head high and 
tried to clench his shaking lips together. 

“ I’ll fight,” he said. “ I won’t funk. Come on, 
Austin; we’ll tell them.” 


CHAPTER VI 


(i) 

TJ OME is silent for one short half-hour each 
night during the tourist season — that and 
no more. Until three o’clock cabs still remain on 
the stand, their drivers talk and quarrel, and their 
horses stamp. At about the same time the last 
restaurant emits its last revellers, and the post- 
office officials go home, and all to the sound of sing- 
ing. You hear an air of an opera begin out of the 
distance like a thread of sound. It waxes and it 
wanes ; it grows suddenly louder ; it peals out below 
your window, sung often so exceedingly well that 
you begin to wonder whether the man is a profes- 
sional; then again it dies away by degrees, and is 
drowned at last in some new and nearer noise. 
There follows silence; the old city sighs once and 
falls asleep, to be awakened at half-past three o’clock 
by the country carts coming in from the Campagna, 
laden with the old necessaries of man — food and 
wine and oil — that Rome for twenty-three and a 
half hours more may cook and eat and drink. It 
seems as though the city which has lived so long 
and known so much, which is in her heart so con- 
245 


246 


THE COWARD 


templative and so quiet and so brooding, in that 
heart of hers that the tourist never sees, in her old, 
disused churches and her hidden courts, needs but 
little sleep, for she has much to ponder in her 
heart. . . . 

At half -past two Val sprang up again with a sud- 
den movement from his bed; and barefooted, in his 
pyjamas began to walk up and down, up and down, 
as half a dozen times already he had walked this 
night. In the dim light that came from the shaded 
electric lamp which burnt by his bed he looked alert 
and even keen; his eyes were bright and wide; his 
lips were open as if he were running; again and 
again he murmured little soundless sentences. For 
perhaps ten minutes he so walked up and down ; then 
he threw himself suddenly face downward on the 
bed, threw out his hands to clasp his pillow, and so 
remained, all a-sprawl across the bed. 

It seemed now as if days had passed — or rather 
an eternity of consciousness, since dinner-time the 
night before. And yet the chime of one clock 
seemed scarcely silent before another sounded, so 
swiftly did the quarters of each hour flit by. It 
was in some remote period, such as that of child- 
hood, that his health had been drunk in Char- 
treuse. . . . 

He had not been able to face the girls. Austin 


THE COWARD 


247 


had told him not to; he said that Val’s manner 
would tell them that something was wrong; and 
it was most important that they should suspect noth- 
ing. It was Austin himself who went and told 
them that Val was not well, and that he had gone 
straight to bed; he had also told them that the two 
Italians had come and talked a great deal and very 
fast, and that he thought there would be no more 
trouble. Then Austin had come to Val’s room to 
see if he was comfortable and to talk over the situa- 
tion. 

They had been together till half-past eleven — 
Austin moody and doubtful; Val alternately vio- 
lently talkative and silent. More than once Austin 
had been on the very point of going down to the 
telephone, and it was not Val who had dissuaded 
him. Val had said that he would leave himself in 
Austin’s hands. 

Then they had fenced a little with walking-sticks; 
Austin had gone over a few strokes with him, and 
made him practise a certain feint in seconde that he 
seemed to think a good deal of. He said it was new. 
. . . And it had been Val who had tossed his 

stick suddenly on the bed and said that it would 
be much better for him to have a bit of sleep. 
Austin agreed ; and as he went to the door, promis- 
ing to wake Val at four, the boy had called him 
back. 


248 


THE COWARD 


“ One minute, Austin.” 

The other paused. 

“ You’ll give all messages if ... if it’s 
necessary? ” 

“ Nonsense. . . . You’ll get him in the 

sword arm in three minutes,” said Austin harshly. 

Val jerked his head. Then he was motionless. 

“ Don’t forget, old chap ... if it’s neces- 
sary. Mother and father and May, and — and 
Gertie. Tell her ” He stopped. 

“ I’m very fond of Gertie,” he said lamentably. 

Austin nodded sharply. Sentiment was not very 
far under the surface; and he felt it had better stop 
there. Then he thought himself a shade untender. 

“ Don’t bother your head, old boy. It’ll be all 
perfectly right. . . . Good night.” 

“ Good night. ... I say, Austin.” 

“ Well?” 

“ I’ve been a beast to you — always. I’m sorry. 
That’s all. Good night.” 

“ Good night.” 

Then Austin had softly closed the door and gone 
to his own room. 


(n) 

Indeed, Val seemed to him very admirable, as he 
too turned from side to side, and listened to the 
clocks and the stamp of horses and the unintelli- 


THE COWARD 


249 


gible conversations beneath his window. He had 
behaved like a gentleman this afternoon, as of course 
a Medd always must. Nothing could have been 
more proper and respectable, even though a trifle 
hasty and indiscreet, than the slapping of the young 
man’s face. Austin doubted whether he himself 
would have had the nerve to act so decisively and 
vigorously at a moment’s notice; but Val always 
had had a nervous sort of courage. There was 
the affair of Gertie’s horse, for instance. He, 
Austin,, would probably have fumbled, and won- 
dered whether it was wise to gallop after a bolting 
horse; it might easily have done more harm than 
good. But Val had galloped; and had succeeded. 

Then the affair of the Matterhorn slope recurred 
to his mind ; and he acknowledged that this affair in 
Rome, first the slapping, and then the cool deter- 
mination to fight, completely altered his former in- 
terpretation of the climbing incident. Poor old Val 
must have, as he had said, simply lost his physical 
head; it had been a task simply beyond him. For 
now that the boy was faced by a far greater peril, 
and one, too, that advanced steadily as each minute 
went by through hour after hour, he showed no sign 
of faltering at all. He had been unjust in dreaming 
even of real cowardice. 

Austin went through, then, during the hours of 
that night, a very considerable fit of repentance. 


250 


THE COWARD 


He acknowledged to himself frankly that he had 
misjudged Val; he resolved if — (no, not if, but 
when ... ) — when this affair was over he 

would be more cordial — more cordial and appre- 
ciative. 

Until about one o’clock those thoughts came- and 
went, interspersed, however, with others far more 
agonising that concerned his own part in the affair. 

It must be remembered, in justice to Austin, that 
he was still quite young : he had not left Cambridge 
more than two or three years; and although he 
possessed to the full the Englishman’s instinctive 
hatred and contempt of the duel, together with a 
very superior attitude towards foreign ways, yet it 
was a considerable bewilderment to him as to the 
course to be pursued, when he found himself faced 
by the brother of a Prince, a general and a lieutenant 
of the Italian army, all of whom blandly assumed 
that an English gentleman in Italy must behave like 
an Italian gentleman, or forfeit his own right to the 
name altogether. And he thought himself debarred 
by this very consideration from consulting anyone 
else. Probably, however, even then he would have 
done so in the long run, if Val had not interposed so 
sharply. But, at the very instant in which he was 
swaying this way and that, the boy had started up 
and said he would fight; and a feather, when the 
balance is delicate, will weigh down one side. 


THE COWARD 


251 


But all this did not save Austin from a very dis- 
agreeable hour and a half, until about one o’clock 
he fell asleep. He knew perfectly well that he 
would be held responsible at home ; that he had been 
sent out because Val was not thought old enough or 
steady enough to take charge of the party; and he 
simply did not dare to contemplate what in the world 
would be said to him if . . . well, if Val did 

not come home again — and, in fact, anyhow. 
Well, that was not his affair now; the thing had 
been settled; the challenge had been accepted. It 
must be seen through. 

He slept miserably. Once, about two, he got up, 
and stole out down the thick-carpeted passage to 
Val’s door, but there was dead silence within. 
Through the passage window, at the end, he heard 
a sudden stamp of a horse, drawn up in his place on 
the cabstand outside. He must not disturb Val. 
He went back to bed, looking once more at his 
alarum-clock, set at ten minutes before four. 

An hour later he woke again, and heard the three 
silver chimes from the tall clock downstairs, and 
then, in the breathless silence that had fallen, he 
heard even the solemn tick. He counted a dozen, 
and it seemed to him suddenly horrible. These 
seconds were, literally, ticking out Val’s life, or, at 


252 


THE COWARD 


least, its grave peril. He pulled the sheet over his 
ears, and presently fell asleep once more, to dream, 
as he had dreamt during the last two hours, of 
swords and Val’s face, and moustached opponents 
larger than human, and a pleasant old garden, such 
as h*e had seen last week, backed by a crumbling 
palace. . . . 

He awoke suddenly, terrified, and shocked; for 
there was a bright light in his eyes, which for an 
instant he thought the light of broad day; and he 
sprang up to a sitting position, bewildered and con- 
fused. Then he saw Val’s face close to his own; 
the boy was half sitting on the bed, and shaking 
him by the shoulder. 

“Eh? What? Is it time?” . . . 

Then he saw Val’s face more plainly, and for an 
instant thought himself dreaming again. For it 
seemed, since he had left him three or four hours 
ago, as if that face had thinned down into the looks 
of an old man, or of one struck by mortal sickness. 
The hair was tumbled, the lips were pale and parted, 
and the eyes seemed drawn down as by strange lines 
that faded into dark patches above the cheek-bone. 

“ Good Lord ! ” he said. “ What’s the matter ? 
Are you ill?” 

He jumped out of bed and stood looking at him. 

The white face nodded at him. 


THE COWARD 


253 

“ Yes,” said the white lips, “ I’m ill . . . I’m 

ill ... I can’t go.” 

“ Can’t go ! . . . My dear chap, you simply 

must. Good God! Whatever would ?” 

The eyes looking into his own wavered. 

“ I can’t go,” repeated the pale mouth. “ I can’t 
go. I’m ill.” 

" But ” 

Then the boy gave way. He cast himself down 
across the bed, and that miserable quavering cry 
which once before Austin had heard, as the two 
faced together a visible peril, rose lamentably up, 
half stifled by the bedclothes on which his face 
lay. 

“ I can’t ... I can’t ... I simply 
can’t. . . . I’m not fit. I ... I can’t 

fence. You know it. You’re ever so much better. 
. . . Oh! I can’t . . . I can’t.” 

“ Sit up, Val. . . . Look here ” 

Then the alarum clock burst into clamour, strident 
and metallic. It seemed that it must wake the house 
and the city to this appalling shame. Austin seized 
it, wrenched at the handles, desperate and furious, 
yet it clattered on. He turned hopelessly, still hold- 
ing it. Then he dashed it into the seat of the deep 
chair that stood by his bed-foot, and it was silent — 
silent even to its tick. A splinter of glass tinkled 
down on to the polished floor. 


254 


THE COWARD 


Austin turned again, and there was a new ring of 
severity in his voice. 

“ Val . . . tell me. You mean to say you’re 

not going? — that you’re afraid ? ” 

There was silence. The writhed figure on the bed 
lay still. 

Austin came a step nearer and tapped the ex- 
tended bare foot sharply, twice. 

“ Come,” he said. “ Tell me at once. Don’t tell 
me you’re a cur after all.” 

(For here swelled up in the elder boy at this 
instant all the old bitterness and contempt, multiplied 
a thousand-fold. 

He saw here before him one of his blood that was 
a craven and a weakling; one who disgraced the 
name that he himself bore.) 

The face on the pillow turned a little. 

“ I can’t ”... moaned the broken voice. 

Austin did not speak. For one tense instant he 
stood motionless. Then his fingers went to his 
throat and ripped down the buttons of the pyjama 
jacket, then he slipped it off, and tossed it on to the 
bed, careless whether it fell on his brother or not; 
pulled at the tassel of his trousers so that they fell 
to the ground, stepped free ; and then a slim, boyish 
figure went across to where his clothes lay folded for 
the morning. He first poured out cold water and 


THE COWARD 


255 


submerged his head; then he splashed water up his 
anus to the elbows, ran a rough towel over himself, 
and shook the drops from his hair. Then he took 
up his clothes and began to dress. 

As he sat at last on his chair, lacing his shoes, he 
spoke, without looking up. 

“ You’ll be good enough to explain matters to 
May, if it is necessary. I don’t care what lies you 
tell. But you’re responsible.” 

There was no answer. He glanced up, and saw 
that Val was sitting upright again, looking at him. 
He turned away his own eyes. 

“You’re responsible,” he said again. 

He had to pass to the further side of the bed to 
get his watch, and to lift down his light covert-coat 
that hung on the pegs beyond. When he turned 
again Val was standing by the door, as if to bar the 
way. He had not heard the sound of the bare feet 
on the thick carpet. The first country cart was 
rattling past outside. 

“ What are you going to do ? ” asked a voice that 
was all but soundless. 

Austin paid no attention. He slipped on his coat 
and turned up the collar, as the morning seemed 
chilly. Then he put on his hat and took his stick. 
(It was one Val had given him the week before — 
a dome-palm. But he did not remember this just 
then.) Then he came towards the door. 


256 


THE COWARD 


“ What are you going to do ? ” asked the boy 
again. 

“ Get out of my way,” snarled the elder brother 
so suddenly and fiercely that Val recoiled. Austin 
pushed by him and went out, leaving the door open. 

As he reached the hall he glanced back, scarcely 
knowing why, at a little gallery that hung out from 
the passage where the four had their rooms. There 
was a figure standing there, in pyjamas, relieved 
against the glimmer of light that came from the open 
door beyond; and this figure seemed to be looking 
at him. 

Then he went on. 

The night-porter in his little glazed shelter woke 
from his doze with a start. A young man in a 
covert-coat and a bowler hat was standing over him. 
This young man jerked his head toward the great 
entrance without speaking. When the door was 
unlocked the young man went out, still in silence. 
The porter looked after him, at the pale, empty 
square, colourless as a dead man’s face. Overhead 
the sky was streaked with rose. Then the porter 
went back to doze again. 


CHAPTER VII 


(i) 

TT was very still in the room where the boy, 
A crouched in a chair, listened for every sound 
that might bring him news; but it was a stillness 
of intensity and thought rather than of realistic fact, 
since outside, as the minutes went by, Rome awoke 
more and more to her new day. The conversa- 
tions beneath the windows did not die out into 
silence, as earlier in the night; one was succeeded 
by another, until voices became general; now the 
call of a cabman, now the cry of a trader, now 
the talking of friends. So too with the sound of 
wheels; there was not a crescendo, a roar, and a 
long diminuendo down into stillness again ; but roar 
succeeded roar, and the beat of hoofs the beat of 
hoofs. 

Within the great hotel, too, life came back. 
Doors opened and closed; there was the noise of 
water dashed against steps at back and front; foot- 
steps went over paved places; soft vibrations made 
themselves perceived as men and maids passed over- 
head and beneath along the thick-carpeted passages. 
257 


258 


THE COWARD 


Once there was a bustle; sounds of the moving of 
heavy weights shook the air ; voices and steps 
sounded about; doors banged: and the boy started 
up, wide-eyed and white, his whole conscious 
thought concentrated into the sense of hearing. But 
the noises passed; wheels rolled over the stones; 
and he, peeping between the curtains, saw an open 
cab drive away with travellers and luggage. And 
once he sprang to the door and listened, for a slow 
footstep had gone by and paused, it seemed, at 
Austin’s door. He listened in an agony, the heavy 
beating in his throat drowning all sounds. Then 
he peeped out, and a maid was looking at him, 
curiously, he thought, from his brother’s half-open 
door. 

In a tremendous climax of anxiety there is no 
consecutiveness of thought, and very little orderly 
consideration at all. Visions, rather, come and go; 
little scenes present themselves. It was so with this 
boy. He saw a hundred vignettes, and some of 
them over and over again, scarcely modified even 
in detail. Austin wounded or dead; a group in a 
garden; Austin pale and victorious, with blood on 
his rapier-blade; Austin threatening him; Italian 
faces mocking and sardonic; Italian faces terrified 
and distraught. He saw his father too, either quiet 
and ordinary, or transfigured with passion and con- 


THE COWARD 


259 


tempt; his mother swooning; his mother hard and 
brutal; his mother gracious and stately and un- 
knowing. And, again and again, Gertie, in every 
pose and in every mood — forgiving, compassionate, 
furious, overwhelmed, sneering, and then compas- 
sionate once more. . . . 

There were just three or four lines of thought 
that presented themselves; but each broke off and 
tangled itself inextricably with the rest, or 
snapped at some external sound from the square 
without or the hotel within, or led up to a white 
wall of despair which there was no scaling. 

First there was the part he himself had played. 
Now he was contrite and humiliated, now over- 
whelmed with misery, now resentful and self-ac- 
quitting, snatching in a passion of self-preservation 
at any excuse : he was honestly ill . . . it was 

cruel that such a strain should be put on him ; Aus- 
tin was at once the elder brother and the better 
fencer: Austin should have insisted at once on 
taking his place. And then misery and self-con- 
tempt all over again. Once or twice he considered 
the possibility of throwing himself on the floor and 
feigning unconsciousness, to prove his own physical 
collapse ; but he was unable even to do this. 

Next there was the consideration as to what was 
happening. He knew nothing except that Austin 
had gone to keep the appointment, whether to dep- 


26 o 


THE COWARD 


recate, to apologise, to make excuses, to make an- 
other appointment, or to fight — he had not an 
idea. Now he felt that Austin must surely manage 
to explain things away, to tide matters over; now 
that he must surely fight in his younger brother’s 
place. . . . What were elder brothers for if not 

to take responsibilities as well as privileges? 

Thirdly — and this so repeatedly that it drove him 
nearly mad — he rehearsed explanations and argu- 
ments by which he could put himself right with 
Gertie and May. He would have presently to go 
downstairs and meet them at breakfast. . . . 

Why did not Austin come back ? ... In God’s 

name, why did not Austin come hackf . . . 
What could he say? He knew nothing. . . 
Perhaps Austin was back : perhaps he had not gone 
after all; perhaps he was already at breakfast with 
the rest, discussing him. . . . 

A clock chimed. He listened in an agony. There 
were two chimes, and the space between seemed an 
eternity. Silence followed. Was that two in the 
afternoon, or half-past eight? He sprang up and 
ran to his bedside. The hands of his watch pointed 
to half-past six. He shook his watch; held it to 
his ear and listened; then he stared at the moving 
hand that marked the seconds. Was it truly only 
half-past six? 


THE COWARD 


261 


Then he laid it down, softly, as if for fear of 
waking a child; for a footstep came past his door. 
It went on, and ceased; and he heard a door close. 
Then, through the wall, with his ear laid against it, 
he heard someone moving in the next room. 

At his own door he paused, his mouth hanging 
open; his mind revolved like a pack of wheels. 
. . . Then he opened his door, and without look- 

ing behind him went swiftly up the passage to 
Austin’s door. It was closed. He tapped once, but 
there was no answer. He opened it and went in. 
Austin, with his coat and waistcoat off, was bending 
over the basin, and there was the sound of trickling 
water : he did not turn round or show any sign. 

Val stood there, perfectly still, watching. Then 
he cleared his throat; but Austin did not show any 
sign of having heard him : his shirt-sleeves were 
turned back to the elbow and he seemed to be doing 
something with a sponge. 

“ Austin?” 

“ Damn it,” said Austin suddenly ; and then, 
“ Come and do this for me.” 

An extraordinary flush of joy swept through the 
boy; he came quickly across the floor, still bare- 
footed and in his pyjamas; he then recoiled. A 
sound broke from his mouth. 

For the basin seemed full of blood ; a roll of blood- 


262 


THE COWARD 


stained bandages lay beside it; and along Austin’s 
right arm, from wrist to elbow, on the inner side, 
ran a long, deep furrow that dripped blood as he 
looked. 

“ Blast it all,” snapped Austin again. “ Can’t 
you be some good? Look how I’m bleeding.” 

With a huge wrench at himself, Val gathered his 
nerves together, and bound them tight by an action 
of his will. He came round behind his brother, 
took the sponge from his left hand — the sponge that 
was all clotted and stained with crimson — wrung 
it out, dipped it again, and then holding Austin’s 
right hand, squeezed out a flood of cold water on to 
the wound. He could see now that the furrow was 
not all: just above the elbow a spot of blood lay 
welling, and from behind the elbow something 
dropped steadily into the water. 

“ That’s no good,” snarled Austin. “ Get some 
more bandages — quick. There” (he jerked with 
his head). “ Get some handkerchiefs out of that 
top drawer and tear them up.” 

Val flew across the room, flung open the drawer, 
and snatched out the handkerchiefs. He looked 
hopelessly round for scissors, saw them, snipped the 
hem of each handkerchief and tore them across. 


THE COWARD 


263 


(n) 

As the clock was striking half-past seven, Val, 
kneeling by Austin’s chair in which he had made 
him sit down for the slow process of bandaging, 
tenderly pulled down the shirt-arm, unfolded the 
cuff, and fastened it with its link. Then before 
he laid the hand down along the chair-arm he 
kissed it. 

“ Don’t be a blasted fool,” said Austin explosively. 

They had not spoken one word yet beyond those 
necessary for the manipulation of the arm. Austin 
had flatly refused to have a doctor in the first five 
minutes. Val had not suggested it; but the other 
had suddenly cried out that he would not have one. 

While Val had been working: fetching vaseline 
from his own room; flinging on a few clothes and 
dashing down to the porter to send him to a chemist 
for something that would stop bleeding; and then 
washing and washing, and untying and bandaging 
and untying and bandaging again — while all these 
external things were being done, an interior process 
was also going on : his pride, it seemed, was melting, 
his bitterness of self-reproach going, and he ap- 
peared to himself to be becoming humble and simple 
— as a girl might be towards a lover who had 
suffered in her behalf. It had been as a sort of 


264 


THE COWARD 


climax of this process that, in a passion of love and 
sorrow towards his brother, he had kissed his hand. 
And now Austin’s sharp sentence set all his nerves 
jangling and quivering once more. It appeared to 
him from his brother’s tone as if there were to be 
no smoothing over of the wrong by caresses. He 
stood up, ashamed and angry. 

“ Look here,” said Austin, “ we must have a talk. 
Sit down; give me a cigarette first. And ring for 
coffee.” 

“ I’ll go and fetch it,” said Val. 

In five minutes he was back again with the tray : 
he poured out a cup for Austin, and held a match for 
him to light a cigarette. He set the coffee on his 
brother’s left hand, that he might help himself. 

“ And look here,” said Austin, “ first you’d better 
hear the facts. Then you can settle what you’re 
going to say to the others. I needn’t say I shan’t be 
down to breakfast ! ” 

His lips writhed in a kind of painful smile. Then 
he finished his coffee and leaned back smoking. 

“ Well,” he said, “ I went to the place. The 
others drove up just behind me. When they wanted 
to know why you weren’t there I told them you were 
ill. I lied freely. There was nothing else to be 
done. They tried to sneer at that ; and Don Adrian 


THE COWARD 


265 


What’s-his-name began to make himself offensive. 
But I soon shut him up by telling him I didn’t see 
what he’d got to complain of : he’d behaved like a 
dirty blackguard and had been properly chastised; 
and it was a considerable honour to him that we 
consented to meet him at all. You were ill, I said; 
and I had insisted on your remaining at home. And 
I had come to take your place. Would they kindly 
begin therefore at once, or I should be obliged to 
slap him on the only other cheek he had left. . . . 

It seemed to me the only way out of it. . . . 

Well, they agreed at last, and we fought ; and he gave 
me this in the first go off. I must say they behaved 
decently after that; especially the doctor-chap who 
acted as my second and tied me up. They wanted 
to kiss and make friends. And I did shake hands 
with them. And then they put me in a cab and 
sent me away.” 

He stopped. 

“ I feel vile,” he said ; “ I think I’m going to 
faint.” 

Val sprang up and ran for the sponge; he tore 
open Austin’s collar and bathed him, face and ears 
and breast. Then Austin opened his eyes again. 

“ All right,” he said. “ Sit down. Now what 
are we going to do next? We shall have to tell the 
girls something.” 

Val opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. 


266 


THE COWARD 


“ I can’t possibly come out of my room to-day,” 
went on Austin, not noticing ; “ and I very much 
doubt whether I’ll be able to travel to-morrow. I 
don’t see how it’s possible to stop their knowing. 
But I’m perfectly willing to say that I insisted on 
going instead of you; or that you were, honestly, 
taken really ill in the night. Lord knows I don’t 
want people to say more unpleasant things than 
they need. That’d be no consolation.” 

He paused again. 

“ Which is it to be? ” he said. “ Whichever you 
like. Only we must stick to it like death, even at 
home.” 

“ I shall tell them the truth,” said Val in a low 
voice. 

“ Don’t talk blasted rot,” said Austin. “ What 
good would that do? Someone would be sure to 
talk, and then the whole thing ’ud get out. I don’t 
want one of us to be pointed at as a coward. Look 
here ; you were ill, you know. You looked perfectly 
ghastly.” 

For one instant even then Val hesitated; he saw 
one more escape beckoning to him ; he perceived in 
that intensity of thought to which by now every 
fibre of him was screwed up, that here once more 
was a way out, as there had been in the other 
matters — the fight at Eton, the riding of Mention, 
and the climbing in Switzerland. Even Austin said 


THE COWARD 267 

that he looked really ill. Then he crushed down the 
temptation. 

“ That was sheer funk,” he said. “ I was not ill. 
I was a coward. I shall tell them the truth.” 

Austin moved irritably in his chair. 

“ You seem to me to be simply thinking of your- 
self again. Can’t you for one instant, by way of a 
change, think of the rest of us? Do you suppose 
we want all this to get out ? It wouldn’t be pleasant 
for us to be pointed at, and to have it said that you 
were a coward. We hang together, you know ; you 
can’t get over that.” 

Val stood up. 

“ Look here, Austin. Are you well enough for 
me to leave you for five minutes ? ” 

“ Yes. Why?” 

“ I’m going to tell them now,” he said ; and went 
quickly out before Austin could speak again. 

(m) 

May was lying in bed, beginning to wonder 
whether it really was true that a maid had come in, 
drawn the curtains back, and told her it was half- 
past seven. Surely the maid must have been before 
the time — twenty past at the most — and it would 
be scarcely fair to take advantage of that. In that 
case she would have been deprived of ten minutes’ 
sleep, unjustly, and it was really almost a duty to 


268 


THE COWARD 


set that right. So she argued, with that singular 
logic which prevails at such seasons. 

The room she was sleeping in was typically hotel. 
It was extremely comfortable and expensive, and, on 
the whole, rather repulsive; it had, that is to say, 
not the faintest suggestion of homeliness. The only 
really comfortable object that met her eye was her 
own trunk and the half-open door of a cupboard 
that contained dresses and boxes. A small heap of 
things — a large Roman leather photograph frame, 
a tattered chasuble rolled up, some coffee-coloured 
lace, a bronze statuette of Antinous, and a small box 
full of moonstones — lying in a huddle on her table, 
represented her efforts last night to put together her 
locally coloured purchases, for packing. 

She presently began to argue that no sounds yet 
proceeded from Gertie’s room, which communicated 
with hers. The door was closed, and it was barely 
possible that in spite of the silence Gertie might be 
getting up; but it was not likely. And it would not 
be kind or tactful to be down to breakfast before her 
friend. The boys would most certainly be late too : 
they always were; and Val had once said that it 
annoyed him to see everybody else breakfasting 
when he appeared. By the way, Val wasn’t well 
last night; and he would therefore be more certain 
than ever to be late. By the way, she wondered how 
he was this morning. Austin had said it looked 


THE COWARD 


269 


rather like a feverish cold last night — not serious. 

“ Come — er . . . Avanti ! ” cried May sud- 

denly, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin. (Was 
it conceivable that this was the maid after all? In 
that case, she would have ten minutes’ good ) 

Then Val appeared, closing the door behind 
him. 

“ Val ! ” 

He did not speak for an instant. He looked odd 
somehow. Certainly he was dressed; but his hair 
was tumbled ... he looked as if he had slept 
in his clothes. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” asked May, sitting up 
suddenly in bed. 

His lips opened, but he did not speak. She was 
frightened. 

“ Val ! What is it? Are you ill? ” 

“ Look here, May. Don’t be frightened. 
Nothing’s wrong; at least not very. But, first, will 
you ask Gertie to come and speak to me now — now 
and here. Promise? Then I’ll tell you.” 

May slipped out of bed, and stood, gone pale in 
an instant, looking curiously frail and childish in 
her white nightdress and bare feet. Her hair fell 
in a twisted coil over one shoulder. 

“ Yes,” she said breathlessly; “ I promise. Oh! 
Val, tell me.” 


270 


THE COWARD 


He hesitated again ; and she could see the struggle 
in his face. 

“ Very well, then/’ he said almost harshly. 
" Austin wants to see you. . . . He’s not very 

well. He’s . . . been wounded ... in 

the arm. No; it’s not serious. He . . . he 

fought a duel, instead of me, this morning — an hour 
ago. I was a coward and wouldn’t go. . . .” 

She stood, swaying. He came a step nearer. 

“ Say what you like to me afterwards — 
but ” 

Then the door from Gertie’s room opened, and 
she came in, fully dressed. 

“ Why, May ” 

Then she, too, stopped dead, and her eyes grew 
large and apprehensive. 

“Val. . . . May. . . . What’s the matter ? ” 

The boy nodded to his sister. 

“ All right,” he said. “ Go. . . . He’s in 

his own room.” 

She seized her dressing-gown and slipped it on: 
pushed on her slippers. He opened the door for her. 
Then he closed it after her and turned to Gertie. 

“ Gertie,” he said, “ I’ve come to tell I’m a cur and 
a coward. I was challenged to a duel last night — 
by that Italian. I accepted; that’s why I went to 
bed early. And when the time came I behaved like 
a cur. I wouldn’t go; Austin went instead; and 


THE COWARD 


271 

he's been wounded in the arm. . . . That’s all.” 

He stood a moment longer looking at her. She 
did not speak or move. Then he turned and went 
quietly out. 


CHAPTER VIII 


(i) 


HE door closed behind the steward’s-room boy, 



and the Powers and Dominations faced one 
another across the decanters placed, according to 
immemorial custom, exactly half-way between Mr. 
Masterman and Mrs. Markham. There were also 
present on this occasion Mr. Simpson, own man 
to General Medd, a tight-lipped clean-shaven man; 
Miss Ferguson, lady’s maid ; and old Mrs. Bentham, 
once nurse to May and the boys. The gentlemen 
were in evening-dress, since they had just come 
down from the dining-room, leaving the footmen to 
finish the clearing away; and the ladies in black 
silk, with Mrs. Markham and Mrs. Bentham in caps 
as well. 

It is exceedingly difficult to say how stories come 
downstairs from the upper department with what is, 
on the whole, such extraordinary accuracy and detail. 
It is certain that the General, Lady Beatrice, and 
Miss Deverell believed that they had behaved with 
unusual discretion. May’s first letter had been 
received yesterday, and her second to-day at noon; 


272 


THE COWARD 


273 


her parents had hardly, even by now, taken in all 
the facts; yet the story was known by now, in its 
main outline, by all these distinguished persons in 
the steward’s room. Deep melancholy had reigned 
at the high table of the servant’s hall during supper, 
almost as if there had been a death in the family. 
After the cold meat, the aristocracy had risen and 
filed out in silence, to eat their second course in 
the “ Room ” ; and, even during this second course, 
little had been said, and nothing whatever about the 
subject that lay so heavy in the air; until, the last 
public ceremonial having been performed, the nuts 
and sweet biscuits placed in position, and the de- 
canters arranged, James, the steward’s-room boy, 
withdrew, closing the door softly behind him, before 
speeding on tiptoe down and away to the pantry 
to discuss what was up. 

Mr. Masterman made a gesture towards the de- 
canters. Mr. Simpson poured out a glass of sherry 
and held it a moment before the hanging-lamp. 
Then he drank it off, and set down the glass again. 

Mr. Masterman began by observing that it was a 
sad business. Then, after a pause, he related the 
outlines of the story. 

The difference of manner and behaviour of 
servants when in the presence of their employers and 
when in their own company is very remarkable. 
Upstairs they are superb actors, intelligent only as 


274 THE COWARD 

regards their duties, blind and deaf and dumb, it 
seems, to all else: they are that which they are 
trained to be, and nothing more. And even in such 
families as the Medd where they are promoted by 
long service to a higher and more confidential posi- 
tion — even here the invisible line is rigid and un- 
bending: they may grieve over certain kinds of 
sorrows, such as a funeral ; they may smile and make 
speeches on occasions of family rejoicing; but never 
for one single instant are they themselves. Down- 
stairs, however, the world is completely different; 
the masks are laid aside, and they actually form 
opinions for themselves, and express them in a 
manner to which their upstair bearing affords simply 
no key at all. 

There was Mr. Masterman, for instance. Up- 
stairs he was a bent, grey-haired retainer, hurrying, 
rather pathetic, kindly, trustful, and obedient, ruling 
his inferiors, it seemed, without effort or difficulty, 
guiding them as a wheel in a machine guides the 
other wheels, inevitably and mechanically, a sym- 
pathetic echo to his superiors, doing the right thing 
always, seeing nothing he was supposed not to see, 
venturing only very occasionally, with an incredible 
humility, to the tiny sentences of intimacy to which 
he had become entitled by his long service. Down- 
stairs he was a wise old man, with a very strong 
individuality of his own, a very great obstinacy in 


THE COWARD 


275 


his own opinion, a scathing tongue towards the 
footman, and a superbly overwhelming silence 
towards the other under-servants. 

He gave his opinion now on the Rome incident, 
when he had just touched upon the facts of the 
story; and it was, on the whole, a very fair and 
generous opinion. Young Master Val was only a 
boy yet, after all; Mr. Austin was a man; and boys 
could not be expected to do what men did. It was 
regrettable, of course, that such a call had been 
made upon Master Val; but the boy was not to be 
blamed by those who understood. 

Then Mrs. Markham spoke. To her the prom- 
inent feature of the story was the murdering 
proclivity of Papists. Nothing else appeared to her 
of importance; she was unable to concentrate her 
mind upon the parts that the young gentlemen had 
played. For the whole story was just a confirma- 
tion of all that she had learned from her uncle who 
had been butler to an archdeacon. She referred to 
Guy Fawkes and the fires of Smithfield with an 
amazing bitterness. 

Miss Ferguson was sure that it was all Mr. 
Austin’s fault for leading Master Val into mischief. 
She was sure that it was only right that Mr. Austin 
should suffer for it. She was sure, a great number 
of times, of a great number of things that were not 
particularly to the point. 


276 


THE COWARD 


Then Mrs. Bentham announced her views. She 
was of the finest type of the finest servant in the 
world — the old nurse. She held, now, a rather 
nondescript position in the household, with two 
rooms of her own in a wing. She “ mended ” for 
everybody : she put things away very carefully in tis- 
sue-paper, and then forgot where she had put them. 
She was loved by the Medds one and all, who made 
her valuable presents on her birthday, and kissed her 
continually : she was respected by the upper servants 
and reverenced fearfully by the lower; for she had 
her dignities by sheer force of personality and of 
an uprightness whose besmirching was simply in- 
conceivable. 

The first article of her creed, or rather the first 
axiom of her philosophy, was that no Medd could 
ever do anything wrong or unworthy, except in such 
small matters as not “ changing their feet ” when 
they came in, or sitting up too late at night; and 
it was in accordance with this creed that she ex- 
pounded her views. She was sorry that Mr. Austin 
had' fought, but he knew best ; there must have been 
some necessity. Master Val was quite right not to 
fight. Why should he fight? There remained the 
party whom she called “ Them out there,” which 
included the Pope of Rome, the King of Italy, 
France, to which she had paid two visits with the 


THE COWARD 


277 


Family about twelve years before, and the vague 
mass of foreigners behind and beneath these three; 
and for “ Them out there ” she had not a word to 
say. Obviously they “ were in the wrong,” since 
they had come into conflict with the Medds. She 
would be glad when the young gentlemen were safe 
home again. 

Then Mr. Simpson spoke, after a short pause. 

Mr. Simpson, when off the stage, was extremely 
like a great many of his typical employers. He was 
sharp, disdainful, decided, and rather pitiless. Up- 
stairs, of course, he was perfection; he was silent, 
capable, self-effacing, and extremely competent. 

He summed up therefore, in a few biting sen- 
tences, the opinion which would be held on such 
behaviour by the majority of sensible, pitiless men 
of the world. Young Mr. Austin had only done 
the right thing under the circumstances; young 
Master Val? . . . Well! Mr. Simpson sneered 

unpleasantly. 

Then Mrs. Bentham fell upon him. She an- 
nounced that it was disgraceful to speak of the 
young gentlemen so. Master Val was all that 
Master Val should be. When Mr. Simpson had 
been a little longer with the Family he would know 
better than to speak like that. Mr. Simpson sat 
silent, twisting his sherry-glass, suffering a little 


THE COWARD 


278 

indulgent smile to twitch his brown cheek from time 
to time. Miss Ferguson began to be sure again 
of a number of things. 

Mr. Masterman broke in at last in a suitable pause. 
He said that the least said the soonest mended. 
After all, it was impossible to judge fairly on such 
slight information. Above all, no word must be 
spoken outside the “ Room.” The story must on 
no account get into the village. 

He passed the sherry down to Mr. Simpson again 
and suggested a night-cap to Mrs, Bentham. Then 
he stood up: it was time to take the candles up- 
stairs and set out the tray in the smoking-room. 

(11) 

Mrs. Bentham, after her night-cap — one single 
glass, ordered by the doctor — climbed upstairs and 
came into her sitting-room panting a little, both 
from the exertion and from the last ripples of in- 
dignation. It seemed to her disgraceful that a man 
who had been only three years in the Family should 
dare to talk so of her young gentlemen. 

Her rooms, communicating by a passage and a 
baize door with the boys’ wing, were one of the 
minor sights of the place, though in a purely intimate 
and personal way. From ceiling to floor the walls 
were covered with photographs and pictures — in 
the bedroom of persons, in the sitting-room of 


THE COWARD 


279 

places. It was the Medd family, almost exclusively, 
whose representations hung in the minor-room — 
General Medd, from a daguerreotype of him as a 
subaltern, in a small brass frame, to a huge photo- 
graph of him as a general covered with orders, on a 
charger; Lady Beatrice in frocks and frills, in her 
drawing-dress, on horse-back with hounds about her ; 
Val and Austin from baby clothes upwards; May in 
swings, May in sailor-costume holding a rope against 
a stormy sky — these and countless others plastered 
the walls. The sitting-room was less intimate 
but more splendid. Interiors of cathedrals in 
carved frames; views of Egypt and Exeter and 
Swansea and the Houses of Parliament; these dis- 
puted the walls with hanging bookcases containing 
pious literature, and huge presses filled with treas- 
ures and stuffs long since vanished for ever from the 
keeping of their owners. A large sewing-table stood 
in the midst, piled with stockings and linen, with 
a small tea-table beside it at which, on rare oc- 
casions, Mrs. Bentham would entertain to tea Miss 
May or Master Val. Mr. Austin had given up 
coming during the last year or two, though he 
always kissed her courteously and affectionately on 
leaving or arriving at Medhurst. There were two 
large easy chairs, subscribed for by the children ; and 
the carpet had once covered the floor of Austin’s 
room at Eton. Little precious things stood on the 


28 o 


THE COWARD 


mantelpiece and on the tops of the bookcases — 
small inlaid boxes, spectacle-cases and scissors too 
grand to be used — gifts made her on the occasions 
of birthdays; and, in the drawers of the presses still 
other gifts reposed, too splendid even for exhibition 
— embroideries from Egypt, silver-mounted frames, 
and even a jade-handled umbrella, still in its outer 
case. 

Mrs. Bentham — called Benty — was a worthy 
occupier of such glories. Her philosophy has 
already been described, and it extended even to the 
Supernatural. Heaven, so far as it represented 
itself imaginatively to her at all, consisted entirely 
in the eternal possession by her of those she loved — 
(and, indeed, it is difficult to construct a better 
picture) — The Medds and she would dwell to- 
gether in a celestial group, crowned and palmed, 
no doubt, according to tradition, but together. She 
would entertain them to tea through all the aeons; 
and they would come and sit with her in her Man- 
sion while she mended their haloes. . . . 

She had painful matters to think of now, more 
painful than she had dreamed of allowing down- 
stairs ; so she took her seat in one of the easy-chairs, 
and inspected a pair of socks through her spectacles; 
and meanwhile she began to think. 


THE COWARD 


281 

It was not, even now, that she allowed the 
possibility of Val’s having been in the wrong, but it 
was a sore matter that anyone should think him to 
have been so. Far away at the outer doors of her 
consciousness hammered questions and doubts, while 
she sat within severe and determined, adoring the 
Family images with resolute faith. Master Val had 
done perfectly right, she told herself ; he always did, 
except in such minor matters as have been men- 
tioned. And Mr. Austin had done right too. The 
one had not fought when it was apparently his 
business to do so ; the other had fought when it was 
not. And both were right. 

So she sat and darned, bending her fine old 
sunken eyes over her work, her lips tightly com- 
pressed. She made a splendid and romantic figure 
here, in stern black, her shoulders covered by a 
lovely black knitted shawl, clasped at the throat by 
an enamelled brooch with the number of her birth- 
days on it in blue against gold. It had been the 
gift of Austin and Val and May to her last June. 

She finished the sock at last — it was one of a 
basketful of Val’s which she had collected before he 
went abroad — and, as she laid it by, heard the 
rustle of silk, the thud of a stick, and, as she rose to 
her feet, the voice she knew so well. 

“ May I come in, Benty? ” 


28 2 


THE COWARD 


She made haste to push her footstool forward to 
the other chair as she called out in answer. Lady 
Beatrice limped in. 

Her mistress came in sometimes like this, before 
going to bed, for a gentle gossip in the firelight. 
But she looked rather drawn and preoccupied this 
evening as she smiled at the old nurse whom she 
had known for twenty years, and she sat down 
without speaking. She leaned her stick against the 
wall and sat staring into the wood fire for a minute, 
without a word. Then she suddenly bent forward 
and took one of the old wrinkled hands into her 
own. 

“ We’re in trouble, Benty,” she said. 

The old woman’s face twitched and stiffened. 

“ It’s . . . it’s about Val,” said the boy’s 

mother. 

For tactful discretion towards those whom she 
loved Benty was unrivalled. She knew perfectly 
well that nothing must be said about the conver- 
sation itself in the “ Room.” Indeed the conversa- 
tion was not altogether right, but she had felt 
herself unable to check Masterman. But in any 
case it must not be mentioned now. The story had 
leaked out chiefly through Simpson’s having been in 
the dining-room when he was supposed not to be 
there. Masterman also had heard the end of a 


THE COWARD 283 

conversation, and the facts, as has been said, had 
been put together with sufficient accuracy. 

“ What’s the matter with him, my lady ? ” she 
asked, trying not to let her voice tremble. 

“We . . . we’re afraid he hasn’t behaved 

well. He ... he let Austin . . . run 

into danger instead of him. And . . . and I 

must tell you, Benty, because Austin’s been hurt.” 

The old lady looked at her miserably. It was 
frightful to her that a Medd should accuse a Medd. 
How could both be right? And yet both must 
be. Lady Beatrice misunderstood the look. She 
tightened her hand-clasp a little. 

“ Don’t look like that,” she said. “ Austin’s not 
in danger now. He was wounded in the arm, in a 
duel which . . . which I’m afraid Val ought 

to have fought instead of him.” 

Benty looked suddenly defiant. 

“ How could that be, my lady ? Master Val knew 
better than to fight a duel.” 

“ You don’t understand, my dear ” 

“ And him only a boy,” burst in Benty resolutely. 
“ How could anyone expect ” 

“ Benty, you don’t understand. Of course duels 
are very wrong. If they had both kept out of it, it 
would have been different; but it looks as if they had 
to fight, and ” 

“ And Mr. Austin took Master Val’s place. And 


284 


THE COWARD 


quite right too. He’s the elder. It’s his place.” 

The other was silent. It was balm to her to hear 
such pleading; it was what she had tried to say 
gently downstairs half an hour before; and yet she 
had known it was disingenuous while she had said 
it. But it was pleasant to hear another say it too. 
She began to look into the fire again, and to stroke 
the old hand that lay between her own. 

“ Don’t fret your mind, my dear,” went on Benty, 
thoroughly roused by the perilous position she felt 
herself in, and beginning herself to pat back with her 
other hand. “ Master Val’s done nothing but what 
a young gentleman should, and so’s Master Austin. 
If they will go out to these foreign parts they’ll be 
bound to get into trouble, and what’s more proper 
than that Master Austin should take the brunt 
of it.” (Benty was proud of this phrase, even while 
she used it.) “Master Val! why, he’s only a 
boy. Don’t you fret, my lady . . . there ! 

there . . .” (for her mistress had suddenly 

bowed her head on the kind old hands.) “ There! 
there. Sit up, my dear. It’s time you were in 
bed.” 

For a minute or so the two sat in silence. Lady 
Beatrice had recovered herself almost, instantly, and 
leaned back, with just the glimmer of tears still 
in her eyes, soothed and healed by the warm, fa- 
miliar old presence, with its amazing charity and 


THE COWARD 


285 


loyalty. She knew that Benty would never under- 
stand; that she would simply refuse to understand; 
and, after all, it was a pleasant and perhaps a wise 
philosophy — this refusal to judge, this fidelity to 
principles, this denial of facts which appeared to 
conflict with those principles. She half envied 
this creed of utter faith, and yet she thought it was 
not for her. She herself must deal with things in 
the world : it was not possible for her, she believed, 
to remain always in the atmosphere of this room, to 
live by faith, hope, and charity, and nothing else 
at all. She stood up painfully at last, helping her- 
self by her stick on one side and Benty’s firm hands 
on the other. 

“ You’re a dear,” she said, and kissed her. 
“ Now I must go to bed.” 

“ Is the master much upset ? ” asked the old 
woman anxiously. 

“ Yes, he is,” said Lady Beatrice. 

(hi) 

Benty still pottered about uneasily for a few 
minutes, after she had seen her mistress to her room- 
door. She had promised to go in half an hour to 
“ tuck her up.” But she could not settle down again 
to the socks. She went through them indeed, ruth- 
lessly, pressing her knuckles inside the foot of each 


286 


THE COWARD 


to detect the better any incipient thinnesses; she 
counted them twice to see that the tale was correct. 
Then she wound up her gilt clock, a gift of the 
General. Then she went into her bedroom to see 
that the clothes were properly turned down. (It 
was the stated duty of a lower housemaid to do this 
for Mrs. Bentham every night, as well as to make 
the bed in the morning.) And then once more she 
sat down before the fire, with her old hands clasped. 

There was a long frame above the mantelpiece, 
containing, as in a gallery, the photographs of 
General Medd, Lady Beatrice, Minnie, who had died 
in infancy, then Austin, then May, then Val; and 
lastly, by a peculiar privilege, the severe countenance 
of Miss Deverell. She looked up at this once or 
twice, and particularly at the two boys — Austin, 
aged sixteen, in a collar much too high for him, with 
a markedly intellectual brow, from which the hair 
had been, by the photographer’s directions, carefully 
brushed backwards; and Val, aged thirteen, in an 
Eton suit, leaning on a balustrade, with Swiss moun- 
tains in the background. 

And meanwhile Benty went through her little 
conflict once more. 

The doubts and questions which, half an hour ago, 
had been merely battering at her outer gate, were 
now clamorous and articulate. That Simpson 
should “ pass remarks ” was one thing ; that a Medd, 


THE COWARD 


287 


and she the mother, should “ pass ” them was 
another. It was bitter to Benty that Lady Beatrice 
should, all unknowingly, have joined forces with a 
cynical manservant, who had no real reverence for 
the Family at all. So Benty fought desper- 
ately. . . . 

It is at once a gain and a loss to simple and un- 
educated people that they cannot, usually, stand 
outside and regard themselves. They have extra- 
ordinarily little power of self-criticism — even of 
self-observance. But it was pure gain to Benty 
now. She fought for her boy instinctively and 
quite unfairly; she seized every advantage, she dis- 
ingeniously rejected every suggestion on the other 
side. She insisted that Val was a boy; she refused 
to allow that he was becoming a man. She insisted 
that duels were wrong; she rejected the inevitable 
conclusion that Austin ought not to have fought 
(for she was determined to vindicate him, too, as 
well as Val; since both were Medds). 

Benty ’s great word was “ proper.” It connoted a 
thousand shades and nuances ; its fabric was estab- 
lished convention ; but it was embroidered over with 
religion, and fine instinct, and violent, loveable preju- 
dice; and before she could be satisfied, she must 
range everybody with Medd blood under its sanc- 
tion. “ The master ” must be right in being upset; 
“ the mistress ” in being distressed ; Austin in fight- 


288 


THE COWARD 


in g; Val in not fighting. And everybody else must 
be wrong, “ Them out there,” and Simpson, emphati- 
cally Simpson, down here. 

Well; she won of course. Charity prevailed over 
just criticism. She stormed off her guns of disap- 
probation at the enemy ; they were not doing or say- 
ing or thinking what was “ proper,” and she clasped 
all the Medds, one and all, to her heart. “ My 
Family, right or wrong.” 

A great peace descended on Benty, and the enemy 
retired. Visions moved before her of the young 
gentlemen and Miss May coming home again. 
Everything would be all right then. Master Val 
would come and have tea with her; and she would 
tell him to take off his shoes and warm his feet on 
the high fender, as he liked to do. Charity would 
materialise itself and become finally victorious, in 
little kindly acts showered upon the wounded. 
They would be healed and made whole. 

Before she went to “ the mistress ” she did an 
unusual thing ; she leaned forward and gently kissed 
the photograph of the sulky looking boy who leaned 
on the balustrade in the presence of the Swiss moun- 
tains. 


(IV) 

“ Benty,” said Lady Beatrice, regarding her over 
the edge of the bedclothes. “ Were they — Master- 


THE COWARD 289 

man, I mean — saying anything about what I told 
you, in the ‘ Room ’ ? ” 

Benty, with a stern face, was shaking out the 
stockings which Miss Ferguson had placed in a man- 
ner displeasing to her, and affected not to hear. 

“ Benty — were they ? ” 

“ Eh? my lady.” 

“ Were they talking about it downstairs? ” 

“ How should they be doing that? ” demanded the 
old lady in sudden indignation. “ Why you only 
told me this evening; and it isn’t likely that I 
should ” 

“ Then they weren’t ? ” persisted the other, who 
had an uneasy sense of having seen Simpson just 
too late, while she and her husband were talking. 
Besides, it appeared that Benty herself had been 
strangely quick in understanding the situation just 
now. 

Benty paused. Then with immense emphasis, she 
lied. 

“ No, my lady. And, if they did, I’d soon put 
a stopper on them.” 

Lady Beatrice sighed with relief and laid her head 
back. 

“ Kiss me, Benty,” she said three minutes later, 
as the old nurse finished with the stockings, and 
said, “ There ! ” 


CHAPTER IX 


i 

'T^HE little sleeping compartment for two was 
dim and ghostly looking within as the Rome 
to Paris train de luxe ten days later ran mile after 
mile through the southern plains of France as the 
dawn began to come up, and its light filtered in 
through the drawn flapping blinds, to mingle with 
the shaded glow of the lamp in the roof. 

Val turned over once again, and rested his cheek 
on the edge of his upper berth, looking down into 
the compartment beneath. He had been awake 
since three o’clock, and had now given up all idea of 
sleep. He just lay, listening to the measured beat 
of the train sounding above the steady roar of the 
wheels, to the flapping of the blind, to the long, far- 
away scream of the engine as it tore through sleep- 
ing stations, to the banging of a door left unfastened 
somewhere down the corridor — he lay there listen- 
ing and thinking. 

Now, however, he opened his eyes, and began 
mechanically to study the bird’s-eye view of the com- 
partment behind him — the heap of Austin’s clothes 
290 


THE COWARD 


291 


on the cane-seat by the window, a couple of Italian 
newspapers on the floor; his own overcoat and hat 
swinging from the peg by the window, an open ciga- 
rette-box that he had hidden for Austin a few miles 
out of Modane, and produced again afterwards; 
and, finally, the edge of the red coverlet from the 
berth beneath where Austin lay sleeping. And as 
he saw this he leaned over yet further to see 
whether Austin’s bandaged arm, now, however, al- 
most healed, were lying as it should, in the sling 
across his breast. The doctor had said it must not 
be knocked against anything. 

Then he lay back again in his own place and re- 
mained still. 

Ten minutes later he roused himself with a jerk 
and sat up. His tweed suit was hanging at the foot 
of his berth, and he kneeled forwards to get his 
leather letter-case out of the breast-pocket of his 
coat. Out of this he drew a folded paper, and then 
lay back again to read it through, as well as he could 
in the dim light, for perhaps the fiftieth time. It 
was written in a strong, but rather school-girlish 
handwriting. 

“ I have thought over everything you have said ; 
and my answer is what it was at the beginning ; and 
nothing you can ever say or do again can make any 


292 


THE COWARD 


difference. I cannot marry a coward. When I 
made our engagement I thought you were a brave 
man; and I certainly shall never forget that you 
once saved my life. But that can make no differ- 
ence now. When you had a real test you failed and 
you allowed your brother to take your place. I need 
not say how sorry I am to have brought all this 
trouble on you; but perhaps it is best so, as it has 
showed me what you really are before it was too 
late. Marriage without love would be bad enough ; 
but marriage without respect far worse ; and I could 
never respect a coward. As for our engagement, I 
trust to your honour never to tell anyone that it 
ever existed. If I think it right I shall tell May or 
your mother myself ; but I don’t see that I need. 

“ Of course, we shall have to be friends, in a way, 
at any rate so long as we are in Rome, and until we 
get back to England. 

“ Gertrude Marjoribanks.” 

He read it through slowly, all the cruel phrases, 
the hints at melodrama, the sensible, reasonable sen- 
timents, half-childish, half-womanly, even though 
he knew it practically by heart. It was the last com- 
munication he had had from her about the affair. 
There had been two or three interviews first, and, 
finally, a week after the duel, and three days before 
the doctor would allow Austin to travel, she had 


THE COWARD 


293 

written and put this note on his table. He had not 
answered it. 

If his state of mind must be summed up under one 
word one would say that it consisted of dreaminess. 
There were moments and even hours when he felt 
desperately inspired to do some really great thing to 
prove his courage ; there were other moments when 
he was shaken by a passion of despair. But both 
these were passing; there seemed to him for the most 
part now to be nothing anywhere but dreaminess; 
there was no good in anything anywhere; nothing 
mattered. He had lost not only the respect of 
everyone else, but, what is infinitely worse, his own 
self-respect as well. It was no good twisting and 
shamming and excusing any more. He was found 
out; and he had found himself out. ... A 
huge gulf separated him from his kind. Gertie was 
gone, as irreparably as if she were dead;’ May 
seemed to stand off from him, almost as if she were 
frightened of him ; Austin, with his pain and his gal- 
lantry, accepted as a matter of course all the infinite 
attentions which Val gave him, and once or twice 
even had snapped at him rather brutally, once telling 
him that “ he might be a bit more thoughtful under 
the circumstances/’ once that he “ wished he 
wouldn’t come bothering, but would leave him 
alone.” And, as for his parents at home, well, his 


294 


THE COWARD 


chief misery on this journey was the thought that 
every mile brought him nearer to Medhurst. . . . 
They had both written to May, but Val’s name was 
not mentioned in either letter. One single figure 
glimmered with hope, and that was Benty. 

He had found himself out then. But he stood 
now at a point from which this was more wretched 
than to be found out by other people. 

(n) 

“ Val ! are you awake ? ” 

He leant over the edge instantly. 

“ Yes. . . . Can I do anything? ” 

“ I wish you’d come and look at this string ; the 
knot’s got behind my neck.” 

Val threw his legs over the side and dropped to 
the ground. Austin drew his breath sharply. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he said. “ I 
asked you not last night. It jars me.” 

“ Sorry. Let’s see the knot.” 

“ Gently ! ” said Austin presently, “ you touched 
my wrist.” 

“ Sorry. Is that all right? Anything else? ” 

“ What’s the time ? I suppose you couldn’t get 
some coffee.” 

“ I’ll go and see. I think it’s about six.” 

In ten minutes he returned with a tray. 

“ You’ve been a long time,” said Austin. 


THE COWARD 


295 


“ I thought I’d better take some to the girls too/’ 

Austin said nothing, and Val poured out the 
coffee and held the saucer for him. 

“ That’s better,” said Austin more graciously, 
leaning back at last. “ And now, if you’d give me a 
cigarette ” 

This was done, and Val drank his own coffee, put 
the tray on the floor outside, and prepared to climb 
back to his berth. 

“ Do you want to go to sleep again ? ” asked 
Austin. 

“ Not particularly. Why?” 

“ Well, we might have a talk. The girls will be 
up soon, and we may not have another chance.” 

“ All right. Wait a sec., and I’ll put on a coat.” 

Then Austin settled himself down for a lecture. 

It must be confessed that Austin was not wholly 
miserable at the turn things had taken. Certainly 
he had suffered considerably; his wound had given 
him really severe pain for some days, and when Val 
handled him clumsily it still hurt a good deal. And 
he was sincerely upset at the blow to the family 
honour ; it seemed to him appalling that his brother 
should have behaved like a cur. And yet there were 
consolations. It was pleasant to be treated as a hero 
and adored like a god by Gertie and May, by Gertie 
especially; it was pleasant to be travelling home to 


296 


THE COWARD 


parents who, though they would certainly find fault 
with his discretion, as their letters had hinted, would 
equally certainly respect him in a new kind of way 
altogether. To have fought a duel at all was not 
without distinction; and lastly, and perhaps chiefly, 
though mostly subconsciously, it was pleasant to 
know that Val’s relations with him were finally 
decided henceforth and for ever; no longer could 
there be any question at all as to which ruled and 
which served. He himself had behaved as a model 
elder brother; Val had already shown by his atten- 
tions and his humility that he knew the duties of a 
younger, and recognised their obligations. 

It was with all this behind him therefore that 
Austin settled down comfortably for his first delib- 
erate lecture of Val. 

“ Look here/’ he began, “ you won’t mind my 
saying this first of all — that I think you look after 
the two girls a little more than they like. May said 
something to me yesterday after lunch, when you’d 
gone. You don’t mind my saying that? ” 

“ Please tell me.” 

“ Well, you know, they’re both awfully upset just 
now. And it looks rather as if . . . as if you 

were trying to propitiate them. . . . Just leave 

it alone a bit; it’ll come right. At least . . 

Val was silent. 


THE COWARD 


297 


“ You don’t mind my telling you ? ” 

“ No. Thanks very much.” 

“ I mean things like taking coffee in to them. 
They’d much rather ring and ask for it themselves. 
Honestly, I think you’d better keep rather aloof than 
otherwise.” 

Val nodded. 

“ Well, but,” went on Austin, “ what I particu- 
larly wanted to talk about was what was to happen 
when we got home — what to say to them, and so 
on.” 

“ I ought to be back at Cambridge. Fall term 
began last week. I rather thought ” 

“ Oh ! but you mustn’t shirk coming home. You 
must face the music.” 

“ I didn’t mean I wasn’t coming home,” said Val 
humbly. “ I only meant that it couldn’t be for more 
than a day or so.” 

“ Well,” interrupted Austin rather irritably, “ that 
makes it no better. Whatever has got to be said 
will be said at once, I imagine. I hope you aren’t 
expecting them to behave as if nothing at all had 
happened.” 

“ No ; I wasn’t.” 

“ Well, the point is, what line are we to take ? 
Lord knows, I don’t want a fuss. The point is, is 
there any way we can tone the thing down a 
bit?” 


298 


THE COWARD 


“ I propose to tell them the truth.” 

“ Good God, Val ! You seem unable to think of 
anybody but yourself, even now. Hasn’t it occurred 
to you that this will be about the most ghastly blow 
to father that he’s ever had? I wasn’t thinking of 
you, my good chap, but of him. The point is, can 
we say anything that’ll make it less ghastly — that 
you were really ill, for instance ? I don’t think you 
realise in the least that honour and courage and that 

sort of thing is about the most What’s the 

matter ? ” 

“ Nothing; go on.” 

Austin looked at him with a touch of uneasiness. 
Val had flinched just now, flinched as from a blow 
in the face; he looked, even now in this half-light — 
for he had omitted to turn back the shade of the 
lamp — curiously pale and worn. Austin deter- 
mined to be less rhetorical, but felt he must continue 
to be explicit. 

“ Look here, Val; I know this isn’t easy for you. 
But you really must face things. You know father’s 
ideas. Do you remember that jaw he gave us both 
before we went to school about standing up . . . 

and so on? Well, we’ve got to get this thing 
through as easily as we can for his sake and 
mother’s. And I think the illness line is about the 
best.” 


THE COWARD 


299 

“ I am afraid that’s no good now,” said Val 
almost soundlessly. 

“ What? I can’t hear.” 

“ I am afraid that’s no good now. You must 
remember that May and Gertie know the whole 
thing.” 

“ I know. You would go and tell them outright. 
And I begged you not to.” 

“ Well, it’s done now.” 

Austin was silent a moment. 

“ What have you to suggest, then?” he snapped 
at last. 

Val stood up, feeling in his coat pocket for his 
cigarette-case. (Obviously this was to soften the 
situation, thought Austin.) And as he put his ciga- 
rette between his lips he answered. 

“ I have nothing whatever to suggest, except the 
whole truth. I propose to tell that, without modifi- 
cations ; and . . . and to face the music, as you 

said. It’s no good, Austin; he’s got to be told. Of 
course, I’m perfectly willing that anyone else should 
tell him who wishes to. I’m not — er — exactly 
keen on doing it myself. I imagine he knows the 
outline? ” 

“ He knows that you . . . that you refused 

to fight at the last moment, and that I had to instead, 
of course.” 


300 


THE COWARD 


“ Well, those are the facts, aren’t they? ” 

Austin was silent. Secretly he knew it must be 
so; that the facts must come out. And he shrank 
from that, even now. 

“ Look here,” he said, “ I’ll take you at your 
word. May and I will tell him. We’ll do what we 
can, for everybody’s sake. But I’m afraid you must 
be prepared for — well — remarks.” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ There’s one other thing,” added Austin pres- 
ently. “ It’s about Gertie. You remember we had 
a row about it before. Well, look here, have you — 
er — any secret understanding with her ? One or 
two things ” 

“ Do you mean am I engaged to her? ” 

“ Well, yes, or practically engaged, without any 
actual promise, you know.” 

“ I am not,” said Val. “ There’s not the faintest 
understanding of any sort or kind.” 

“ Well, that’s all right. Because I was going to 
tell you that it really won’t do, now at any rate. 
People under a cloud mustn’t Eh ! what’s up? ” 

“ I burnt my lip,” said Val. 

“ Well, then, that’s really all . . . Val? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I’m afraid you’re feeling pretty beastly about 
all this ” 


THE COWARD 


301 

He did not finish his sentence. Val was gone 
out into the corridor, leaving the door open. 

Austin snorted to himself. 

“ What a chap ! ” he said aloud. 

(m) 

It was already dark when the boat express from 
Folkestone drew up at the little wayside station to 
let the Medd party disembark. It was one of the 
Medhurst privileges — understood rather than actu- 
ally stated — since the line ran for a couple of miles 
through an outlying tongue of the estate. It was 
not used often, of course; but a telegram had been 
handed to Austin on the quay at Folkestone, telling 
him it would be so to-night. 

There, too, the brougham waited at the foot of the 
steps that led down from the high platform, - its 
lamps blazing, and its two horses stamping and 
tossing their heads after the long wait, ready to 
take them over the fourteen miles to Medhurst. A 
cart was drawn up behind the brougham for the lug- 
gage. 

Val dawdled at the carriage door, pretending to 
oversee the taking out of the hand-luggage, in 
reality strangely unwilling to see even one familiar 
face; and by the time that he reached the head of 
the steps, the girls were already at the bottom, and 
Austin was going down gently and carefully on the 


3° 2 


THE COWARD 


arm of Simpson, his father’s own body-servant. 
This was an enormous distinction. Usually one of 
the younger footmen would have been sent to meet 
such a party. 

Three minutes later Austin was in his place, 
propped by cushions, with Gertie beside him and 
May opposite. Then Val climbed in. Simpson 
shut the door, mounted beside the coachman, and 
the brougham moved off. 

The day had passed for Val like a terrible dream. 
They had lunched in the restaurant-car shortly be- 
fore reaching Paris ; had driven straight across Paris 
and caught the boat-train at the Gare du Nord. 
The Channel had been wet and stormy; but they 
were up to time. But the chief horror of the day, 
to him, had been the sense of a gulf that deepened 
and widened between him and the others, as every 
mile brought them nearer home. He had taken 
Austin’s hint, and had attempted no more officious 
services ; for he perceived that his brother had been 
perfectly right, and that it had been from a vague 
sense of propitiation that he had done so much 
already. And others had met him at least half-way. 
No one except Austin had spoken to him at all ; and 
indeed they had hardly talked among themselves, at 
any rate when he was there. And he had only been 
with them at meal-times, or when they had to change 


THE COWARD 


303 


carriages, and for a few minutes on the boat. From 
Folkestone they had travelled together, because there 
was a reserved carriage. 

It was the actual increase of a sense of alienation 
that was weighing on him so terribly ; for he felt it 
to be a symptom of the kind of reception he would 
have at home. If, even after ten days, Austin and 
May could treat him so, what might he not expect at 
Medhurst? . . . except . . . except per- 

haps from Benty. 

And now there was dead silence in the brougham. 
Five minutes after starting he had touched Gertie’s 
foot with his own, and she had withdrawn it with- 
out a word ; and this afforded him a theme for fur- 
ther meditation. 

Then Austin, in despair, had said something 
about the rain that was now coming on again more 
heavily than ever ; and May had answered him with 
almost hysterical effusiveness. And then again si- 
lence fell. 

“ Val.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Was my little brown bag put into the cart, do 
you know ? ” pursued Austin. 

“ Yes. At least, I saw it taken downstairs all 
right.” 

“ Oh, thanks.” 


304 


THE COWARD 


And then again a long silence, broken only by 
the beating of the rain against the windows, and the 
steady cloppetty-clops of the horses’ hoofs over the 
splashy roads. 

Perhaps three or four other sentences were ut- 
tered during the fourteen-mile drive. Once May 
leant forward and asked Austin whether his arm 
was all right. Once Gertie, in answer to another 
question from May, said that she must go home to 
her own people in two days at the latest. Once Aus- 
tin wondered aloud whether there would be anyone 
staying at Medhurst ; and May said she thought not. 
And that was all. The intensity of the silence deep- 
ened every instant; it seemed as if it were only 
when this became unbearable that anyone spoke; 
but for the last three miles they gave it up; and all 
four sat absorbed in the silent darkness within here, 
thinking, listening to the beat of the rain and the 
cloppetty-clop of the hoofs, and again — thinking. 

The brougham drew up at the lodge-gate; and it 
was then perhaps that the boy’s anguish drew to 
a point. For he had always remembered this pause 
— the sudden cessation of hoofs and wheels, and 
then the faint creak of the harness and the jingle of 
a chain as a horse tossed his head, or the faint swing 
of the carriage — and then the footsteps across the 


THE COWARD 


305 


gravel and the sound of the unlocking of the gate — 
remembered it from his old schooldays, when the 
pause seemed intolerable to his impatience to be 
home. Whereas now ! 

It was a mile’s drive to the house from the lodge ; 
first through rhododendrons and along the swan- 
pond, then upwards gently through the woods till 
they came out on to the grass where the rabbits fed 
on summer evenings, then up again to the top of 
the hill, whence the descent went down to the great 
house dreaming among its trees. 

Still no one spoke. But as the carriage topped 
the hill, Gertie leaned forward suddenly, as if to see 
the lights of the house; the glare from the carriage- 
lamps on her side fell full on her face; and Val, 
taken unaware, saw even so the look of strain in 
those beautiful eyes and the downcurved mouth. 
She leaned back almost instantly; but as she did so, 
glanced at Val, and their eyes met. 

The carriage passed straight on along the front of 
the house, as was the custom on wet nights. Val 
saw the grey terrace slip past in the lamplight; but 
it was not until at last the wheels stopped at the 
south porch that he remembered that it was in this 
porch, closed on the night of the ball last Christmas, 
that Gertie and he had sat and kissed. 

Yet even this memory was not so poignant as the 


3 °6 


THE COWARD 


present fact that faced him; it was but an ironical 
background to the meeting with his father and 
mother that was now imminent ; and he sat, his heart 
hammering him sick, not daring even to lean for- 
ward into the glare of light that now poured out of 
the open door. 

The carriage-door too was open now ; he perceived 
that without moving his eyes from the ground. 
Fortunately he sat on the further side. . . . He 

heard voices talking; and then the carriage creaked 
as Austin was helped out. 

“ Gently now, Simpson,” said his father’s voice, 
sharp and anxious. . . . 

There was a pause. Then May was out; and he 
heard his mother’s voice murmuring something. 
Yet still he sat motionless. .And then Gertie slipped 
across and was gone. Yet still he. sat motionless. 

“ Master Val, sir,” said a voice. 

He looked up, and old Masterman was peering in. 
He raised his eyes over the man’s shoulder and saw 
that the doorway was no longer darkened. Yet still 
he gave them a moment or two to get clear of his 
presence, and he pretended to search under the seat 
for something. 

“ I’ll take everything out, Master Val.” 

“ Ah ! it’ll be in the cart, I expect. . . . 

Thanks.” 

He went slowly up the two steps into the porch ; 


THE COWARD 


307 


and then lie could see that the brightly lit corridor 
beyond was empty. Then he heard the swing door 
into the hall bang, and knew that the way was clear 
up the back stairs. They had gone, all of them, 
leaving him. 

When he reached the head of the back stairs he 
stood and listened; but there was no sound any- 
where in the great house; then on tip-toe he ran, 
like a hunted creature, along the passages, through 
the upper swing door, along the gallery, down a 
couple of stairs, and so to his own room in the north 
wing. He caught a glimpse of an old capped face 
peering out from beyond the baize door that led to 
Benty’s rooms, but he would not see her and ran on. 

There he locked the door, and stood listening 
again. ... He was only a boy. 

(IV) 

The stable clock struck ten before he was dis- 
turbed. He had heard the bell for the servants’ 
supper soon after he had reached his room, three- 
quarters of an hour before. Then he had washed, 
and changed his shoes. He was almost grateful 
to find hot water ready for him, and shoes and socks 
set out before the fire. He wondered whether 
Charles, the young footman, had done it on his own 
responsibility, or was it Benty, perhaps. Then he 
had sat before the fire, motionless, thinking. 


3°8 


THE COWARD 


Somehow, the reality was a hundred times worse 
than the anticipation. He had rehearsed, of course, 
scene after scene — each of which had ended in his 
being turned out of the house. He knew, in a way, 
that this was ridiculous; yet his imagination was 
not fertile enough to picture any other way in which 
his father could adequately deal with the situation. 
And it had been even a relief to think of himself as 
an outcast; for suicide or death from exposure had 
formed the sequel of his interior drama. But the 
reality was worse. He was to be treated physically 
with ordinary kindness — he was to have hot water, 
and a fire, and the curtains drawn ; and yet he was, 
morally, to be treated as if he did not exist. The 
others must have finished supper by now; and the 
shameful story must have been told in full. It was 
all known by now ... in detail. 

When the tap came at his door he started up. 

“ Yes. Who’s there? ” 

“ It’s Masterman, Master Val.” 

He unlocked the door and stood there, barring 
entrance, still holding out of sight in his left hand 
a small packet slung on a string, which he had taken 
from round his neck as he changed and had been 
holding almost unconsciously ever since. 

“ Her ladyship says, will you come down and 
have supper at once, please, Master Val. And when 


THE COWARD 


309 

you’ve had supper, her ladyship says, will you go 
into master’s study.” 

Val nodded. He could see that the old man was 
puzzled. Or was it, perhaps, that he too had been 
told, and that they were* laughing over the story in 
the servants’ hall. 

“ I’ll come down. . . . Have the others 

finished ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. They’re all in her ladyship’s room. 
Miss Marjoribanks has gone to bed.” 

“ Very well. I’ll come directly.” 

When the footsteps had died away again and he 
had locked the door, he went to the fire once more 
and stood there motionless. He had come to his 
tragic little determination during the journey across 
France; he had almost carried it out on the boat, 
but it had seemed to him more judicial and more 
final to finish the affair at home. So he had taken 
off his little packet of Gertie’s photograph and her 
letters, and held it now, looking at it. . . . 

, Then he kissed it suddenly and passionately. 
Then he dropped it carefully into the red heart of 
the fire. 

“ They’re all in her ladyship’s room,” the old man 
had said just now. As he left his room at last the 
words came back to him. 


3 10 


THE COWARD 


He could see all so well — his mother in her 
chair, his father standing on the rug, Austin perhaps 
on the sofa, and May beside him. Austin would be 
telling the story. . . . 

Down in the dining-room three people had 
supped ; the fourth place was still untouched. They 
had expected him to sup with them then! 

There was some soup — growing cold. He ate 
some of this, glancing over his shoulder at the door 
as he helped himself from the sideboard; he did not 
wish to be taken unprepared, and he moved his 
place round to where he could watch this door. 
Then he ate something cold and drank a couple of 
glasses of wine. And all the while he listened, and 
the moment was come. 

Yet for a while he still sat, fumbling his bread and 
staring with sick eyes at the portraits that watched 
him. There were half a dozen rather inferior por- 
traits here — inferior, that is, compared with the 
priceless collection in the great hall. Four were 
women, but two were men, and these two were 
soldiers; the one young and smooth-faced, in 
breast-armour: he had fought at Naseby, and died 
there, aged nineteen; the other in flowing wig and 
scarlet, with lace at his wrists — this one had been 
one of Marlborough’s captains, who had fought at 
Blenheim and been wounded. ... It seemed 
horrible to Val that these should be hanging opposite 


THE COWARD 


3ii 

him; he remembered his father telling him their 
stories more than once, when he was a child. . . . 

And then, unconscious that he had made any 
decision to move, conscious only that he rose up 
from table, as might a machine, he went to the door, 
opened it, passed out, crossed the length of the hall 
with his head lowered and his eyes upon the floor, 
put his hand on the handle of the study door, 
went in without knocking, closed the door behind 
him, and stood looking at his father, who was look- 
ing at him. 


(V) 

His father was in the tall chair by the fire, facing 
him, with his head on his hand. Another chair 
stood drawn up on the hearth-rug, evidently by 
design, and, without a word, the old General signed 
to this. 

“ There,” he said. 

Val went straight to it and sat down. 

It is hardly possible to say that he was suffering 
consciously. I11 mental pain, as in physical, there 
comes a point beyond which reflection on the pain 
(which is the essence of suffering) becomes impos- 
sible. It was in this state that Val sat and faced his. 
father; he could even notice how the green light 
from the shaded lamp at his father’s side glimmered 


2,12 


THE COWARD 


on the silver hair above the old man’s ears ; how the 
long knotted hand that lay on the little table beneath 
the lamp writhed itself into lines and shadows as the 
fingers contracted and relaxed. Even the old fa- 
miliar fear of his father seemed gone — absorbed in 
a vaster emotion. . . . 

Then his father cleared his throat and began to 
speak; and again Val was more conscious of the 
huskiness of the tone than of anything else. An- 
other part of him than that of attention received 
and stored every word that he listened to. 

“ I’m not going to say much to you, sir. I have 
decided to do you the honour of thinking still that 
there is no need. It is rather of the future that I am 
going to speak.” 

He stopped and swallowed in his throat. 

“ Your mother and I have talked the matter over. 
We knew, of course, all that happened, from the 
letters; and we have just heard the last details. 
Your brother has said all that he can for you; he 
has told us that you seemed really ill; he has done 
his utmost to defend you. How far all this may 
seem an excuse to you, I do not know. I cannot any 
longer pretend to understand you or your code. 
May too has pleaded for you. And this is our 
decision. 

“ Henceforth I do not wish one word spoken on 


THE COWARD 


3i3 


the subject to any living being. When I have 
finished what I have to say to-night I shall never 
refer to the subject again to you or anyone else. 
Neither will your mother nor Austin nor May. 
May is now with Miss Marjoribanks, telling her our 
decision, and asking her to observe the same condi- 
tions. And I expect you — in fact, I order you, 
now, to do the same. You are not to discuss the 
matter with anybody — not even with Austin. So 
far as speech is concerned, the matter is finished. 

“ As regards action, I shall do what I think right. 
I do not mean that I shall exclude you from the 
house or take you away from Cambridge. Things 
will go on as before in those ways. I shall not dis- 
grace you publicly. But if, at any time, you have 
reason to think I am treating you unfairly, or show- 
ing any want of confidence in you, you will kindly 
remember the reason. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Have you anything to say? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You will leave here to-morrow by the nine-four- 
teen train, and go straight up to Cambridge. You 
will breakfast alone, therefore. When we see you 
again at Midsummer we shall take up our old life 
again with you so far as that may be possible.” 

He paused. 

Then he called out aloud, sharply: 


3 I 4 


THE COWARD 


“ Beatrice.” 

The door leading from his study into his wife’s 
morning-room was pushed open behind him, and 
Val saw his mother come in. She came steadily 
forward, upright and magnificent, but her hand on 
her stick shook a little. Val too stood up, and 
remained waiting. 

“ Beatrice, I have told him. From this time 
onwards no one will mention the subject again. He 
must redeem his honour as best he can.” 

The old man turned again to Val. 

“ Good night,” he said. “ Kiss your mother.” 

And then her arms were round the boy, and he 
burst into sudden uncontrollable weeping. 


PART III 























































CHAPTER I 


(i) 

r |^HE street of Medhurst Village resembles that 
of the mean average of English villages 
throughout the land: that is to say that it has 
specimens of the architecture of about eight hundred 
years, from the Norman church on the left, in the 
middle, to the corrugated-iron roofs of the twentieth 
century covering the ricks, in the suburb on the 
right. It can look, therefore, exceedingly beautiful 
or exceedingly dreary, according to the place where 
one stands to view it. 

On this June morning it ought to have looked 
exceedingly beautiful to Lady Beatrice Medd as she 
stood in the gate of the Home Farm, looking up 
past the church, with her Bath-chair, drawn by an 
Egyptian donkey, waiting behind her. Only she 
was thinking about something else. 

The village ran at the bottom of a shallow valley. 
Behind Lady Beatrice and the farm-yard were the 
kitchen gardens, the glass houses, and the park. 
Opposite her was the village inn, and the Medd 
Arms swinging from an iron scroll-work bracket 
317 


THE COWARD 


3i8 

that was hung in front ; and through the open doors 
she could see the June flowers in the garden beyond; 
and down, away to the left, ran the street — here a 
row of “ magpie ” houses, dating from Tudor days; 
there a red-brick Queen Anne house, standing back, 
with a little strip of greenery in front, as if in a 
mood of staid and modest gentility, with a roof like 
that of a chapel appearing behind; then a row of 
thatched cottages, half hidden under the giant 
flowers that towered before them. All this was on 
the opposite side of the road from the Home Farm; 
on this side, the churchyard wall began immediately, 
over which looked the church-tower, like a tall, high- 
shouldered man, peeping. And then the road 
curved and disappeared towards the school and the 
farmer’s house and the vicarage. The June sun lay 
hot and bright on road and house and trees and 
flowers. 

Lady Beatrice, it has been said, was thinking of 
something else than the view. Besides, she had 
seen it a thousand times before. It was her custom, 
once or twice a week at least, if the weather was 
respectable, to come down here in her donkey- 
carriage, and talk to the bailiff, or inspect the orchid- 
house, or visit the school (which, by the way, she 
almost entirely financed). She loved the leisurely 
sense of business and responsibility that it all gave 


THE COWARD 


3i9 


her; and there was often, honestly, something for 
her to do. This morning she was undecided. She 
had told the schoolmistress on Sunday that she 
might be looking in to-day; yet she felt disinclined 
to go. Two or three ideas floated through her quiet 
mind ; and, meantime, she stood, her parasol resting 
on her shoulder, watching the infinitesimal drama of 
the village street. 

First there came a tight-breeched cyclist, crouched 
like a great ape over his low handle-bars, striding 
up past the church ; he eyed the great lady standing 
there as he came near, seemed inclined to ask her a 
question, and then thought better of it. He dis- 
mounted at the inn opposite and went in; and 
presently could be descried in the dark little open- 
windowed parlour on the right, tilting a long glass 
to his mouth. Lady Beatrice hoped he was enjoy- 
ing himself. . . . 

Then out of the inn door came a fat white dog 
that reminded her of dear Jimbo, long ago laid to 
rest under the cedar in the garden, with a Latin 
inscription, designed by Professor Macintosh, over 
him. This one came out with the same assured and 
proprietary air, barked sullenly once at Lady Bea- 
trice, just to tell her he was there, and then lay 
down on the cobble-stones in the shadow, to keep 
an eye on her. She could hear, all across the road, 


320 


THE COWARD 


the grunt of pleasure (or was it rheumatics?) 
with which he plumped himself down. Probably he 
had been disturbed by the tight-breeched cyclist who 
was now sitting in a chair and smoking. 

Then came a procession of fowls round the corner 
of the inn, through an open wicket gate. Obviously 
they were doing wrong, for they walked with an air 
compounded of expectancy, timidity, and defiance. 
A cock came first, fiery-eyed and high-stepping, 
once or twice stooping hastily to pick at the ground, 
and immediately straightening himself, as if he were 
some great man caught in a moment of weakness, 
and challenging criticism; he was followed by four 
homely hens, who picked with more abandon 
and eyed the world with less. She saw the cock 
pause suddenly in his progress with uplifted claw, 
and then dart back to lead the retreat, as a girl came 
out of the inn door and seized a birch-broom to 
demonstrate with. 

The girl then bobbed to Lady Beatrice and went 
to shut the gate. 

“ Good morning, Alice.” 

“ Good morning, m’lady.” 

“ Father and mother well? ” 

“ Yes, m’lady; and thank you.” 

Then the dog barked again; and the Vicar came 
out of the churchyard gate on the right, with his 


THE COWARD 


3 21 


coat-tails flying behind him. He had just finished 
reading the Morning Prayer and Litany, and was 
preparing to go to the school. (Morning Prayer 
and Litany were at eleven, on Wednesdays and 
Fridays, Lady Beatrice remembered.) He took 
off his hat. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Arbuthnot.” 

“ Good morning, Lady Beatrice.” 

He was a pleasant, fervent man who worked hard, 
and thought the Lady Bountiful a little unsym- 
pathetic. He himself was Oxford and Cuddesdon; 
and she was of a strongly Evangelical stock. He 
was exceedingly active, and read Matins and Even- 
song every day, and had a Guild of St. Mary for 
females and a Guild of St. George for males, and 
suffered secretly and intensely from the presence of 
Father Maple in the village. He had had a list 
of the vicars of Medhurst Village, from Thomas 
de Hoppe of 1493 down to James Arbuthnot of 
1891, engraved in brass, and erected in the church 
porch, soon after Father Maple’s arrival, without 
the least hint that anything whatever had been 
tended to break the line about the years 1540 or 
1560 a.d. He spoke of him always as the “ Ro- 
man ” priest, or when he was not quite well, as the 
“ Romish clergyman.” But he was a good-hearted 
and sincere man, and did his best under discourag- 


322 


THE COWARD 


ing circumstances. And he never was uncharitable 
or bitter, beyond the requirements of strict odium 
theologicum. 

“ I’ve been thinking how nice the village looks 
this morning,” said Lady Beatrice, who had not 
previously thought anything at all . about it. “ I 
suppose you are on your way to the schools? ” 

“ Well, I generally go about this time.” 

“ Will you give me your arm as far as that then ? 
I said I would look in myself this morning.” 

They talked, as they went slowly up the street, 
about this and that and the other. Lady Beatrice 
said that she really thought that it was time for 
Alice-o f-the-Inn to go out to service; it wasn’t good 
for young girls, etc., etc. And the Vicar said that 
he had been speaking to Mr. Jeaffreson himself 
(tenant of the “ Medd Arms ”) only last Friday on 
the subject, and that that parent of Alice had given 
his formal consent; but that Mrs. Jeaffreson still 
remained to be persuaded. Perhaps Lady Beatrice 
herself would, etc., etc. It was just that pleasant, 
kindly, paternal talk of the Great Powers who were 
beginning to wonder how much longer their absolute 
domination would continue. 

Then they reached the school door. As they 
entered a loud female voice cried, “ Stand ” ; and 
then, “ Say, ‘ Good morning, my lady ; good morn- 
ing, sir.’ ”... And so the Great Powers were 


THE COWARD 


3 2 3 


saluted; and both sides were pleased: the one by a 
sense of fitting homage and respect, the other by a 
visible reassurance that there were such things as 
Dominations and Authorities still in existence, who 
walked with men. 

(n) 

She came out alone, ten minutes later, assuring 
the Vicar that she could get back unaided, and went 
slowly down the street. When she came opposite 
the church she hesitated. Then she turned and 
limped in. 

Churches on weekday mornings are apt to look 
chilly and unreal, even rather repellent; there is a 
curious smell about them too, reminiscent of re- 
straint and of Sunday mornings; and the Prayer 
Books in the pews look desolate. One is tempted — 
I do not know why — to be profane and worldly 
when one finds oneself alone in one — to mount the 
pulpit and gesticulate in dumb show, to pretend to 
go to sleep in a pew, and to behave generally like 
a vulgar boy. (Probably it arises from a sense 
that the tables are turned, and that for once Solem- 
nity is at one’s mercy, instead of the other way 
about. ) 

Lady Beatrice, it need hardly be said, did none of 
these things. She limped up the aisle into the Medd 
chapel, and sat down in the dusky, smelly splendour, 


3 2 4 


THE COWARD 


beneath the banners and the hatchments. She had 
not come to pray; but she had an idea that she 
could think here more detachedly than at home. 

It was about ten minutes before she moved, and 
then it was with a sudden start at the sound of a 
piano. Very delicately and sweetly the music came 
in here — some grave and humorous gavotte by a 
German master, scholarly, melancholy, academic, 
and yet with soft laughter in it too. Little positive 
phrases asserted themselves solemnly, then turned 
head over heels, chuckled, and vanished. It 
sounded like a light argument by wits round a 
dinner-table in the open air. The wind was very 
still in the village this morning, and the music came 
in, obviously from the Queen Anne house just oppo- 
site, as clear as if played in the churchyard itself. 

She listened, charmed in spite of herself, fixing 
her eyes on the communion-table, gay with its brass 
vases, its painted brass cross and candlesticks hung 
with pious emblems on shields. Overhead a few 
scraps of really old glass — a broken crucifix, two 
headless saints, and some detached black-letters — 
pieced together reverently by the modern successor 
to Thomas de Hoppe, let the sunlight through. 
The other windows were not so fortunate. Op- 
posite the entrance, for example, a green Elijah in 
a blue chariot, ascended amid purple flames, re- 
sembling streams of cherry sauce, towards a heaven 


THE COWARD 


325 

that consisted entirely of Gothic crockets and pin- 
nacles. 

Still she listened, and still the music went on. 
She began mechanically to read some of the inscrip- 
tions with which the chapel walls bulged so thickly. 
Here was an urn and a broken column, and a list of 
virtues: she had smiled before now at the sentence 
with which it ended : “ In short, he was endued 

with every virtue that could grace the Christian 
or adorn the man.” (That was old Christopher 
Medd, who had a family of seventeen children — 
“ ob. 1 734.”) There was a brass to Anthony 
Medd, who had fought and died at Naseby; there, 
a plain marble slab to John Valentine Medd. . . . 
She looked at them, listening to the music. Then, 
as it ended, she got up and went out, passed across 
the street, and rang the bell at the Queen Anne 
house. 

“ Is Father Maple at home? ” she said. 

Lady Beatrice Medd was honestly, except for her 
very distinguished appearance and her history, not 
a very interesting woman. She was as good as 
gold; she was conscientious and domestic, rather 
religious in her own way, perfectly honourable, per- 
fectly fearless. But her worst enemy could not 
have called her subtle, nor her best friend, imagina- 
tive. She had instincts which she usually followed, 
and gravely justified to herself afterwards. She 


326 


THE COWARD 


had her joys, which she took tranquilly, as of right; 
and sorrows, which she bore stoically, like a very in- 
telligent animal, without resentment or indignation. 
In a word, she was an absolutely perfect success 
in her station. Certainly she had rather dull things 
to do; but then she was rather dull herself, to com- 
pensate. 

It was one of those above-mentioned sorrows and 
one of those instincts that sent her across now to 
Father Maple’s house. She would probably not 
have gone if she had not heard the piano and known 
it to be his; even though the idea had crossed her 
mind as she left in the donkey-carriage this morning 
that she might perhaps look in and ask him to 
dinner. 

It was a very pleasant room into which she was 
shown by the Irish housekeeper — a long, high 
room, lined with bookcases, carpetless except for a 
big mat before the fire-place, with a writing-table 
between the windows, and a full-sized grand piano 
in the very middle of the floor. Another little book- 
case stood close beside this, with tall shelves filled 
with music. 

“ I thought his reverence was here, m’lady. 
. . . He must have been after stepping out into 

the garden. I’ll get him.” 

Lady Beatrice sank down into a chair. Through 


THE COWARD 


3 2 7 

the windows she could see the side of the tall red- 
brick chapel, that was an object of such mysterious 
wonder to the village and of such Christian dislike 
to the Vicar. In very sardonic moods he called it a 
“ schism-shop/’ 

Then the tall window-door was darkened and the 
little priest came in in his cassock. 

First she said, “ How do you do? ” and then she 
said she had just looked in to see if he would come 
to dinner on Thursday. No one would be there, she 
said, except themselves and her son Val, who came 
down from Cambridge on that day. And then she 
said how very nice his music sounded as she sat 
in the church just now ; and what was it that he was 
playing ? 

He answered all these remarks suitably : said that 
he would be delighted to dine on Thursday; and 
showed her the manuscript from which he had been 
playing, saying that he had copied it in the British 
Museum the other day, and believed it to be by 
Sebastian Bach. He sat down even at the piano, 
and played a phrase or two over again. She liked 
him, as she watched him with his serious face and 
grey hair. 

And then she suddenly began her real business. 

“ Father Maple/’ she said, “ you’ll think it very 
extraordinary of me, but as a matter of fact I want 
to consult you very much about my son Val.” 


328 


THE COWARD 


He made a little murmurous sound of encourage- 
ment as he wheeled round on his music-stool. 

“ I know Roman Catholic priests are supposed to 
know a great deal about human nature and young 
men and so on. . . . Well, have you heard any- 
thing about our trouble ? ” ( She was in for it now, 

and plunged boldly.) 

“ Yes/’ he said. 

“ Oh ! . . . Well, I suppose somebody was 

certain to talk. It’s perfectly true, I’m sorry to say. 
And I can’t tell you how strongly his father feels 
about it all. May I tell you all, from the begin- 
ning? ” 

“ Please do.” 

So she related the story quite adequately, calling 
Val “ poor boy ” two or three times, describing the 
treatment that her husband had decided upon, and 
ending with her own bewilderment as to what was to 
be done next. For it seemed to her that Val’s 
letters were very odd and unlike him; they came 
punctually, but there was no regret in them, and, 
it seemed, no real affection. He related the most 
ordinary things of Cambridge, and that was all. 

“ And I’m not at all sure,” she said, “ of what’s to 
be done next. His father won’t speak of it even to 
me. I don’t think that anything that has ever 
happened has affected him so much.” 

Father Maple was quite silent for a minute, and 


THE COWARD 


329 


she wondered whether she had done right in coming 
to him. But he had learned two things since he was 
a priest: first, that priests are told things which no 
one else in the world is told ; and second, that those 
who give such confidences in nine cases out of ten 
do not really want any advice at all — they come 
simply to relieve their own minds. He waited, 
therefore, simply to see whether she really wanted 
him to speak. Then he spoke quite simply. 

“ I think your treatment of him is very severe, 
you know. ,, 

“ Severe! Why ” 

“ I mean that you are forbidding him the one 
thing that might relieve the strain. To forbid him 
to talk about it is to drive him back into himself. 
And I do not see what comfort he is to find 
there/’ 

“ Well, perhaps that is so,” she murmured. 

“ I don’t at all mean that it’s necessarily the 
wrong treatment,” he went on, smiling. (He was 
right round on the music-stool now, with one darned 
elbow resting on the edge of the open piano.) 
“ You see I hardly know your son. But it’s heroic 
treatment. If he’s really fine clay inside, he’ll re- 
spond, no doubt. But if not — one hardly knows.” 

“ Ah ! yes; if not. That’s what I want to know.” 

He evaded. 

“ Really it’s impossible to tell.” 


33 ° 


THE COWARD 


“ Well, make a guess at what might happen — 
the worst, you know.” 

He looked straight at her, and she noticed the 
keen, kindly brightness of his eyes. 

“ If you really want to know — well — I should 
think he might go to the bad — or to despair, which 
is the worst.” 

It suddenly came over her how very odd this all 
was — this sudden plunge into intimacy. But the 
man was as impersonal as a doctor ; he seemed quite 
at his ease, and to think it entirely natural to be 
consulted and to talk like this. She made an effort 
to respond. 

“ I see ; thanks very much. Then you think it 
dangerous not to allow him to talk? ” 

He seemed to hint at a shrug with his eyebrows 
and shoulders. Then he smiled again, and she 
noticed his white, even teeth. 

“ Yes, it seems to me dangerous, but not neces- 
sarily fatal.” 

“ I wish you’d notice him on Thursday, and let me 
know what you think. I meant to talk to- the Vicar 
about it, but somehow I’ve not had an opportunity. 
And then the Vicar knows him almost too well 
to judge.” 

“ Certainly. I’ll have a talk with him if I can. 
But, you know, one evening ” 


THE COWARD 


33 1 

She stood up, and he handed her her stick. 

“ Thank you so much, Father Maple. I’m so 
glad I came. . . . Then, on Thursday.” 

She smiled genially and impulsively as she gave 
him her hand, with all her great lady’s air back 
again. 

(in) 

Again the feeling that it was all very strange and 
unconventional came on her as she sat in her 
donkey-carriage, going slowly up the park and 
along the garden paths, with the old groom at the 
donkey’s head. She had talked to Father Maple 
about a dozen times in the whole of her acquain- 
tance with him, and never until to-day had she 
even dreamed of consulting him about any intimate 
matters. And yet she was astonished at the way 
she had felt at her ease with him. She supposed 
that the reason was that he had not looked sur- 
prised, had not hummed or hawed, or put on a pro- 
fessional air; he had been as natural as a surgeon 
consulted about a rickety child. 

And, ah ! the rickety child in question ! 

She could hardly tell when her anxiety had be- 
gun, nor even her reasons for it. Yet from the first 
moment, when she had come in at her husband’s 
call and seen the boy standing there, white and set- 
faced, a spring had been tapped in her which she 


332 


THE COWARD 


scarcely suspected her heart contained — a spring of 
extraordinary compassion. Her old pride in him 
was gone, struck dead when she had first read May’s 
letter; all those attributes which by training and 
birth she had associated with manhood were no 
longer his; yet in their place she was conscious of 
an emotion which she had never felt towards her 
other children. She had been perfectly loyal to her 
husband’s plan — of which, indeed, she had ap- 
proved — and never in her letters to Val at Cam- 
bridge had she allowed any unusual emotion to show 
itself; she wrote of the surfaces of things, of f he 
prospects of the young pheasants, of a fall May 
had had out riding; and she had received in turn 
the same kind of letters back with disconcerting 
promptness. She would probably have snubbed him 
had he broken the contract, but she was inexplicably 
troubled by the fact that he had not. . . . She 

was just normally unreasonable and inconsistent. 

It was this compassion that had made uneasiness 
possible, so soon as she was able to readjust herself 
to these new sentiments; and it was an uneasiness 
for which she could find neither remedy nor ex- 
planation. Neither remedy — since she did not 
dream of speaking to the old General; he felt it all 
too cruelly; he had sat motionless, evening after 
evening, for these two months, pretending to read 
books on things just like Afghanistan, but again and 


THE COWARD 


333 


again, she knew very well, thinking of the son who 
had disgraced him so intimately. Nor explanation, 
since there was nothing that was not dutiful and 
ordinary in Val’s letters. It was this uneasiness, 
then, that had gradually melted her reserve and 
driven her to the very last man to whom, a year ago, 
she would have thought a confidence possible. 

Even now she wondered meditatively at herself. 
She did not know why she had chosen him; she 
supposed it must have been the cultivated discreet 
air of him, or perhaps his music, or perhaps his 
kindly bright eyes. She felt she had been vaguely 
disloyal to the Vicar. She must make up for it. 
Should she ask him, too, to dinner on Thursday? 
. . . No; some other day . . . next week 

. . or the week after. 

May met her by the gold-fish fountain under the 
further cedars. 

“ What a long time you’ve been ! ” said the girl. 

“ I went into the schools with Mr. Arbuthnot,” 
said Lady Beatrice. 


CHAPTER II 


(i) 

TWENTY was in a state of intense and radiant 
*** excitement on the day that Val came home. 
Five minutes after she had risen from the breakfast- 
table in the “ Room ” she was beginning to pull 
the mattresses off Val’s bed, in order to give them 
one more entirely unnecessary warming; and for 
the rest of the morning the baize door between her 
rooms and the boys’ was continually being pushed 
open and banging gently again behind her, as she 
went to and fro bearing sheets and blankets and 
baskets full of mended socks and shirts. 

She could not, of course, for one instant have 
analysed her own feelings precisely. She was al- 
ways delighted when any of her “ children ” came 
home, especially Val; but there was a sense in her, 
this time, that a particular effort was demanded — 
she did not quite know why. 

A rather ominous silence had prevailed on the 
subject of the crisis ever since Val had departed 
for Cambridge a little over two months ago. On the 
same morning the “ mistress ” had paid her another 
visit, and had managed to get into her mind the 
334 


THE COWARD 


335 


idea that no one was to speak of the matter any 
more. This was good, thought Benty ; and yet she 
was not satisfied. She had not seen Val at all 
during the twelve hours of his stay, except for a 
moment, and as he passed her in the passage ; and it 
appeared to her that the situation was not yet as 
entirely devoid of bitterness as she would have 
wished. A good deal, she thought, depended now 
on the way Val was greeted when he came home, 
and, for her part, she would do her best. 

Val’s brougham could not possibly reach the house 
before twenty minutes to two; but by a quarter past 
one Benty had made her excuses in the “ Room ” 
and was busying herself in one of the spare bed- 
rooms whose windows commanded a view of the 
drive. At twenty-five minutes to two she had given 
up even the pretence of occupation, and was honestly 
staring out with puckered eyes for the first glimpse 
of the carriage over the slope of the hill. She had 
to watch ten minutes before she had her heart’s 
desire, and could get away to her baize door, whence 
she could command Val’s approach to wash his 
hands. 


“ Eh-h-h,” she cried, with lifted hands and ra- 
diant face, as he turned the corner from the stairs 
and came upon her suddenly. 


336 


THE COWARD 


“Why, Benty!” said Val, and kissed her twice. 

Her boy did not look very well, she thought ; but 
for no consideration imaginable would she have 
said so. 

“ Now, Master Val, there’s some hot water ready. 
You must wash your hands and brush your hair 
before you see your mamma.” 

Val smiled properly in answer to this old gambit; 
but his face grew grave again too quickly to please 
her. And he said nothing at all about his mamma, 
as he generally did. 

“ There,” said the old lady, pushing his door 
open. “ And I’ve put you out your old brushes, 
till your bag’s unpacked.” 

She hung about outside until he came out again, 
for her strategy was not finished ; and as soon as he 
reappeared was on him again. 

“ There’ll be company at tea,” she said. 

Val’s face changed swiftly. 

“ Will there ? I say, Benty, shall I come to tea 
with you ? ” 

Her old face broke out into wrinkles of pure joy. 

“ Eh ! if you would ! ” she said. “ If your mamma 
wouldn’t ” 

Again came that swift and anxious gravity, all the 
worse, since he smiled simultaneously. 

“ Oh ! they won’t mind,” he said, “ they’ll like it.” 

“ Nay now, Master ” 


THE COWARD 


337 


Val took her hands again and pressed them. 

“ I must go down to lunch,” he said. “ I’ll be 
with you by five. Give me another kiss, Benty.” 

(n) 

She pondered over it all as she sat over her work 
that afternoon, so far as it was possible within the 
limitations of loyalty which she observed so strictly 
and conscientiously. No one must be blamed — 
that was quite clear and certain; every Medd must 
be right ; and yet it was perfectly obvious that there 
was something wrong; and there seemed to her no 
solution except the practical one of going downstairs 
about four o’clock and making the steward’s boy 
polish her silver teapot, milk- jug, and sugar-basin — 
another set of gifts at the end of her twenty-five 
years’ service — under her own eye. Then she 
went on to the still-room, made her selections and 
issued her orders ; and by twenty minutes to five all 
was in place, and the teapot stood ready downstairs 
to be filled and brought up instantly by the still-room 
maid as soon as the nursery bell rang twice, to- 
gether with the buttered buns already warming at 
the fire. 

It was a delicious room, this, in summer, for it 
looked out from beneath the eaves on to the south 
gardens, and the surface of the great cedar fans, 
from beneath which came already the sound of talk- 


338 


THE COWARD 


ing from the “ company ” — one of the usual parties 
of friends’ friends who had come over to see the 
house. Beyond the terrace on the further side of 
the cedar lay the meadow-land sloping down to the 
village, now all alight with summer glory of green 
and gold; and across this, walking slowly and 
alone, came presently the figure she longed for, with 
his hands in his pockets and a white hat on his head. 
. . . She felt uneasy at seeing him alone on this 

the day of his home-coming. . . . Never mind, 

he* would soon be up here at tea with her. As she 
heard, a minute or two later, the baize door swing, 
she rang the bell twice, according to arrangement. 

He looked curiously weary and miserable, even as 
he came in, and began the elaborate humour that 
most delighted Benty’s heart. He said, as in duty 
bound, that he hoped he wasn’t going to be given 
dry bread because he was two minutes late ; that he 
wasn’t going to change his feet however much Benty 
might talk; and that he hoped she had been a good 
girl all this long time that he had been away and not 
able to look after her. She made the proper re- 
sponses and ejaculations as she poured out the tea, 
and put the buttered buns where he could reach 
them without stretching; but she was more than 
ever convinced that something really was wrong and 
that the situation was not what it should be. 

Then, as at last he drank his last cup of tea and 


THE COWARD 


339 

took out his cigarettes, he opened straight on to the 
subject himself. 

“ Benty,” he said, “ I’m a naughty boy, and my 
papa and mamma aren’t pleased with me. Did you 
know that ? ” 

Benty’s face became suddenly distressed. 

“ Nay now; don’t talk like that,” she said. 

“ But it’s true,” said Val. “ And I mustn’t talk 
about it. I’m forbidden: So you must be very 
kind to me to make up.” 

“ Nay now ” she said again. 

“ The less they see of me the more they’ll like it,” 
went on Val, with a kind of resolute bitterness. 
“ They’ve made that quite plain already. Oh, no ; 
they haven’t said anything, of course; but I know 
how it is. So I shall come up and see you very 
often indeed, Benty; and you’ll give me tea and be 
nice to me, won’t you? . . . Shall we run away 

together, and go to Gretna Green ? ” 

“ Now, Master Val ? ” began Benty, not in 

the least amused ; but he interrupted her. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ it’s perfectly true. Now 
I’ll bet you a penny that nobody asks me whether 
I’ll ride. They haven’t yet, and they won’t. You’ll 
see. . . . What time are the horses ordered ? ” 

“ Masterman was saying, at half-past five.” 

“ Well, there’s five minutes more yet. Now 
you’ll see.” 


340 


THE COWARD 


“ Bnt they don’t know where you are,” com- 
plained the old lady, half rising. “ I’ll be off 
and ” 

“ No you won’t,” said Val very deliberately. 
“ You won’t move. They’ll be able to find me per- 
fectly well if they want me; and, besides, the horses 
must be ready by now, and I haven’t heard a word.” 

“ What have you been doing this afternoon?” 
asked Benty, anxious to change the subject. 

Val smiled with that same disagreeable irony he 
had shown before. 

“ I ate my lunch like a good little boy,” he said, 
“ and everyone asked me whether I had had a good 
journey and what time I left Cambridge. And then 
I went into the hall and we all drank coffee; and 
then my mamma asked my papa what time he would 
have the horses, and he said five ; and then she said 
that he’d forgotten people were coming; and then 
May dropped the sugar-basin. And then I began to 
look at the Illustrated London News; and then 
everybody went away; and so I went away too. 
And — let’s see, what did I do next? Oh, I went 
up to my room and filled my cigarette-case ; and then 
I came down to the hall again, and nobody was 
there. So then I went out and began to knock 
the croquet-balls about, and nobody came. So then 
I went down to the farm to see whether the dogs 
were all right, and I took them for a run. And 


THE COWARD 


34i 


then I came back, and the company were under the 
cedar ; so I went and said, ‘ How do you do ? ’ like 
a good little boy; and nobody said anything; and 
then I came up here. . . . Rollicking after- 

noon, wasn’t it, Benty ? Everybody so jolly pleased 
to see me, weren’t they ? ” 

His tone cut the old lady like a knife. He had 
raised his voice a little at the end, and the bitterness 
broke out undisguised. 

She began to rebuke him. 

“ Nay, Master Val — then why didn’t you go and 
talk to them yourself? I’m sure Miss May would 
have been only too pleased ” 

“ Oh, yes ; she’d have come and played croquet 
with me if I’d asked her. But that’s just exactly 
what I wouldn’t do. And they’d all say how nice it 
would be if I went downstairs now and ordered 
Quentin and went out riding; but that’s just exactly 
what I’m not going to do. If they don’t choose to 
ask me ” He broke off. 

“ Master Val ” 

“ Look here, Benty; it’s just half-past. And you 
and me’ll go and peep from the windows in front 
and see them start. Come along, old lady.” 

He jumped up and took her by the arm. 

“ Nay now ” 

“ Come along! ” 

Together they went, she gently, protesting, he 


342 


THE COWARD 


hurrying her away, through the baize door, down 
the passage, and round to the right to the same room 
from which, before lunch, she had watched for 
his arrival. He shut the door carefully behind 
them. 

“ Now, then; behind the curtains/' he said. 
“ They mustn’t see us.” 

“ There,” she cried, peeping as she was ordered. 
“ There’s Quentin all ready for you, Master Val. 
Now be a good boy and go downstairs.” 

“ I won’t,” he said. “ Ah ! they’re coming out.” 

From beneath, as they looked, advanced first the 
General, and then May holding up the skirt of her 
habit, across the paved space and to the head of the 
steps, where the three horses were being led to and 
fro. Masterman was already in waiting there. 
The distance was too great for them to hear through 
the closed window anything that was said, but it was 
obvious that a conversation was being held; and 
presently the butler came hurrying back to the house 
as the General went down the steps. 

“ Let me go, Master Val,” cried the old lady. 
“ The master’s sent for you. Let me go and tell 
Masterman.” He let go his clasp on her arm. 

“ Don’t you bother, Benty ; I’ll go and tell him 
myself.” 

“ Nay now ” 

“ You be quiet,” said Val, and went out. 


THE COWARD 


343 

She followed him, and stood listening when she 
saw him bend over the banisters. 

“ No — I’m not ready,” she heard him say. 
“ Tell the General I didn’t know he was expecting 
me; and that I’m not dressed.” 

She heard the murmur of the butler’s voice from 
below. 

“ I can’t,” said the boy again. “Say that I 
haven’t got my things on. ... Or ... or 
. . . wait; no, say I’ll come after them. Tell 

them not to wait. Tell the man to keep Quentin at 
the steps.” 

As he straightened himself again, the old nurse 
was at his side. 

“ That’s right, Master Val,” she said. “ And 
now you’ll go and have a nice ride. How’ll you 
know which way they’ve gone ? ” 

He smiled. 

“ I’m going a nice ride all by myself,” he said, 
“ in exactly the opposite direction.” 

(hi) 

“ That’s right, my boy,” said his mother, five 
minutes later, as he came to the hall door in his 
breeches. “ They left a message to say they were 
going over the Hurst. How was it you weren’t 
ready ? ” 

Val paused. The “ company ” was now being 


344 


THE COWARD 


conducted over the house, and was ranged in a line 
below the famous portraits. 

“ I didn’t know what time anyone was going out,” 
he said, “ till too late.” 

She looked at him uneasily. He was so exceed- 
ingly calm and self-possessed, on the one hand; and 
she, on the other, was perfectly aware that he had 
not been definitely asked whether he would ride 
when the arrangements had been made. She had 
. meant to ask him herself, later ; and had forgotten. 

“ Well, make haste and catch them up.” 

Val made no answer, but moved on to the door, 
taking his whip from the rack as he did so. Just as 
he went out he turned again. 

“ Was it the Hurst, you said, mother? ” 

“ Yes, my boy : make haste. . . . Have a 

nice ride.” 

She turned again a moment or two later, in the 
midst of her discourse on Anthony Medd, surprised 
at the noise of hoofs on turf, plainly audible through 
the open windows, for the way to the Hurst lay 
round by the stables; and there was Val, full gallop 
up the front, riding, as he had said to Benty, in 
exactly the opposite direction. 

(IV) 

Benty was, of course, at the same window soon 
after seven o’clock. She had gone to and fro on 


THE COWARD 


345 


her business, very heavy at heart, since Val’s little 
scene with her, first clearing away the tea-things, 
and then paying more than one visit to his room, to 
reassure herself that all was as it should be and that 
Charles had done his duty. Then she had taken 
a piece of mending to the bedroom window again, 
telling herself that she could see better there than 
in her own room. 

She had not long to wait. Somewhere out of 
sight came the sound of hoofs, first on turf and then 
on gravel. Then she saw a groom run out from the 
stable shrubbery, and simultaneously Val come into 
sight and pull up. A minute later, as he was com- 
ing up the* steps, again came the noise of hoofs, and 
the two other riders came down the slope. Val 
paid no attention; he walked straight on without 
turning his head, and vanished into the house. 

Benty bundled her mending under her arm and 
hurried out. She felt discomfort all around her and 
within her: she wished to reassure herself by an- 
other word or two with her boy. 

As she reached the passage, whose banisters on 
one side stood out over the inner hall, she heard 
voices below. 

“Yes; they’re just coming, mother. . . . 

No, I missed them. . . . Yes; I went the other 

way over the Hurst; and thought perhaps I’d meet 
them. But I didn’t.” 


346 


THE COWARD 


There was silence, and then the sound of a clos- 
ing door. 

Benty hurried on, and was outside Val’s room as 
the boy came up. 

“ Well, did you have a nice ride ? ” she asked 
timidly. 

“ Lovely!” said* Val. “And all by myself. 
Come in, Benty, and I’ll tell you. . . .” 

“ But you didn’t go the right way, Master Val,” 
she said when they were inside the room. 

Val closed the door and looked at her. His face 
was a little flushed with the exercise ; but there was 
no buoyancy in his eyes — only that same sug- 
gestion of bitterness under his half-lowered eyelids. 

“ I went over the Hurst,” he said, “ exactly as I 
said I would. And I went the opposite way. And 
when I heard them coming, I rode into the bracken 
and hid till they’d gone by. That was why we 
didn’t meet. Wasn’t it a pity ? ” 


! 


CHAPTER III 


(i) 

^C'C'ATHER MAPLE, my lady,” announced 

■*“ Masterman. 

The priest came forward into the great hall, where 
the light of the setting sun lay splendid on the 
stamped leather and the banners and the lower edges 
of the gilded portrait frames, a slender, unimpres- 
sive little figure; and Lady Beatrice rose to meet 
him. 

“ My son Valentine,” she said. “ I think you’ve 
met before, though.” 

A tallish, pale boy, looking younger than his 
years, bowed slightly from the shadow behind her 
without moving, and almost immediately the Gen- 
eral came in. 

“ And we hope you’ve brought some music,” 
added his hostess, smiling. 

It appeared that he had. It was in the porch with 
his hat and stick. 

It was a curiously constrained dinner, thought the 
priest, who was observing, according to request, with 
347 


34-8 


THE COWARD 


all his power. Val never spoke at all unless he was 
spoken to, and then quite shortly, though adequately, 
hardly lifting his eyes; and the General seemed to 
talk with an effort every time. It was the father 
somehow, even more than the son, for whom the 
priest felt sorry. It was as if a kind of vicarious 
humility or shame had fallen upon him : his solemn, 
genial assurance was absent, and he spoke as a man 
might speak who was under a cloud and was never 
unconscious of it for an instant. Just once or twice 
a gleam of interest shone under his hairy eyebrows 
— a pin-point of light — as, for example, when he 
talked politics ; but it died again, and he applied him- 
self gravely to his plate once more. The other two 
were scarcely better ; for it was, the priest reflected, 
Val’s first evening at home since his ignominious 
departure for Cambridge nearly two months before. 
Lady Beatrice, under all her self-possession, was ill 
at ease; she tried to draw Val into the con- 
versation far too pointedly, and he answered more 
and more shortly each time; and May was spas- 
modic and nervous. (Miss Deverell, I forgot to 
say, was also present, with her usual air of discreet 
severity. ) 

It was a relief to everyone when dinner came to 
an end. The General asked the priest and Val 
whether they would take any more wine in such a 
manner that it was practically impossible to say 


THE COWARD 


349 


yes, and suggested going after the ladies imme- 
diately with an air of undisguised satisfaction. 

“ We can have our cigarettes in the hall*” he said. 

As they went out under the gallery the priest 
turned to Val. 

“ Just back from Cambridge, aren’t you ? ” he 
said. 

“ Yes,” said the boy. 

“ I’m a Trinity man myself,” said the priest. 
“ Letter M, Great Court.” 

The boy nodded and smiled with a deliberateness 
that was almost insolent. 

And then, five minutes later, Lady Beatrice asked 
Father Maple to play. 

He went to the piano in a very serious frame of 
mind. For he could see the stress under which 
the whole family lay, and he could not see the 
issue. It was his business, as it is of every priest, 
to be an expert in human nature, and he under- 
stood perfectly that there were elements here that 
might lead to a really grave catastrophe. By 
heredity, by instinct, by training, this group of per- 
sons was infinitely sensitive to certain things, among 
which honour and courage, and their opposites, 
lay supreme. And it was exactly in those points 
that their sentiments had been outraged by one of 
themselves. To live wildly, to be dissipated, to 
gamble, to idle, even to be overbearing and oppres- 


350 


THE COWARD 


sive — all those sins could be condoned ; they passed 
and left no irremediable stain behind. Some of 
these Medd worthies looking down from the walls 
had set startling examples in those aristocratic 
vices. The young man in the dining-room who had 
fought at Naseby looked no better than he should; 
and here in the hall was the portrait of the notorious 
Mrs. Anthony Medd, who had occupied a more than 
doubtful position in the Court of Charles II. Yet 
their portraits hung there, and their histories were 
told without any very overwhelming shame. But 
this was quite another matter. If Val had been 
ruined at cards, or had run away with somebody 
else’s wife, it would have been sad, but not tragic. 
But to have shirked a duel, however foolish or in- 
discreet the fighting of it would have been, was in 
a completely different category. And, as a crown- 
ing touch and as a final complication, the boy him- 
self, it was obvious, had all the sensitiveness to his 
crime which his father had. If he had been cal- 
lous or ill-bred, if he had been just selfishly calcu- 
lating or prudent, the priest would not have feared 
so much. . . . 

It was with the consciousness of this that he went 
to the piano, and, as is the result always with certain 
natures, his nerves were strung up, rather than en- 
feebled, by the fact. The instant he touched the 


THE COWARD 


35i 


piano, with those few preliminary chords with which 
a perfectly competent player begins, he was aware 
of it; and in that moment came to him a determina- 
tion to use it, and to find a way to this boy’s con- 
fidence by that which is, perhaps, the most subtle 
road of all. He laid his music-sheets aside and 
settled down to play to Val. . . . 

(n) 

He had been playing about ten minutes when he 
saw the boy move. 

Up to that moment he had been aware of a tense 
atmosphere such as he seldom won even with such 
a tiny audience as this. He did not look up from 
the piano, but he perceived in the semi-darkness of 
the hall that the four figures within his range — the 
husband, the wife, the daughter, and the shadowy 
companion — remained entirely motionless, each in 
its place — the old man on this side of the hearth 
and the three women on the other. He had not 
seen where Val sat down; but he noticed now the 
figure of the boy pass from the window-seat at the 
further end to that which was nearer the piano; 
and thenceforward saw the blot of his head against 
the darkening sky outside. There were no lights 
here; the sun had not long gone down, and, as he 
was extemporising, he had himself blown out the 
two candles on the piano. 


352 


THE COWARD 


Up to the moment when Val moved, the player 
had been doubtful, wooing, so to speak, enquiring, 
asking, wondering whether the language in which 
he pleaded would be understood. But now all 
doubt left him; he knew, by that strange intuition 
that lives only on the plane of art, and which is as 
certain in that realm as are the senses of sight or 
hearing in the physical order, that he had established 
communications. Whether or not those would lead 
to anything was another matter ; whether, when his 
artistic oratory was done, any answer would come 
he did not know; but this at any rate he deter- 
mined — that he would finish what he had to say. It 
might very well be that the soul of this boy, 
harrowed by eight weeks of miserable isolation, and 
now wrenched and torn again by his return home, 
and the countless associations he met there, and the 
reality of his disgrace — it might very well be that 
the answer would come, and that the boy would 
understand that here at least was one who under- 
stood. 

So he gathered up his strength. 

Up to now he had played plaintively and caress- 
ingly, with infinite pathos, seeking to draw tears 
and soft sounds; it was sentimental, he knew, but 
sentimentality in disguise, for it was by this alone 
that he had thought he could find his way to the 
strange mixture of commonplaceness and distilled 


THE COWARD 


353 


refinement which he perceived to be the fabric on 
which these souls were built. But now he threw 
aside sentiment and sought strength. . . . The 

great chords crashed on. . . . He was amazed 

at his own fire: that soft tingling began in nerves 
and sinews, that electric pulsation ran up every fibre, 
connecting heart and brain and fingers, by which 
the artist knows that he is transfigured ; his contrac- 
tions and limitations passed away; and he felt him- 
self pouring out from wires and keyboard and feet 
and hands, out into the solemn gloom of the hall, 
and into those beating hearts, that tremendous 
passion of which the artist and the orator alone 
know the secret, and the priest the source. 

So he played, and ended. And Miss Deverell 
sniffed, distinctly, in the silence, after a decent 
pause. 

It was a full minute before any moved or spoke. 
He heard a sigh and a rustle; and then he himself 
spoke, with a deliberate offhandedness. 

“ And now I’ll play the gavotte you liked the other 
day, Lady Beatrice/’ 

(m) 

He came and sat down when he had done, and 
drank his coffee, which had grown cold. He had 
not an idea as to what would happen next; and he 


354 


THE COWARD 


had determined not to risk anything by intrusion. 
Meanwhile he answered questions. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I studied at Leipsic and Dres- 
den for ten years. . . . Liszt? Oh, yes; I 

knew Liszt very well. In fact I very nearly ” 

He stopped. 

“Yes?” asked May breathlessly. (She had 
moved her seat to be near him.) 

“ I nearly took up music as a profession.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“ I became a Catholic, and then a priest,” he said 
simply. “ I wasn’t ordained till I was forty, you 
know.” 

“ And you gave up your music ? ” cried May. 

“ I gave it up as a profession,” he said. “ But I 
still get a good deal of enjoyment out of it. I am 
afraid I still play for two or three hours a day.” 

“ But .” And she stopped again, amazed*. 

Val had showed no sign; he still remained in 
the window-seat, silent. Yet all the while that the 
priest was talking he was more aware of the boy’s 
presence than of the three with whom he talked. 
The two women were voluble; even the General 
pulled his long chair a foot or two nearer to listen 
to the musician’s account of his Leipsic days; but 
the boy’s silence talked more loudly than them all. 
It seemed to the priest as if he knew exactly what 


THE COWARD 


355 


was passing behind the heavy curtain — the world 
of misery and shame that trampled so ruthlessly on 
hope; the voice that cried, Rise and begin again, 
and the louder voice that proclaimed that it was too 
late, and that the thing was done, and that an end 
held more hope than a new beginning. For he had 
watched the boy’s face at dinner, and had seen how 
every delicate fibre had withdrawn itself inwards, 
only to find that the worm that dies not is more 
agonising than the fire which is not quenched; he 
had seen that the torment within had been sub- 
stituted for the disgrace without. He had said that 
a boy in such a position might go to the bad, or, 
what was worse, to despair; and he had learned 
that it was to the worse of those that the move was 
being made. . 

“ And you have never regretted it? ” asked May 
presently. 

He smiled. 

“ Priests dare not, anyhow, regret their priest- 
hood. And even if that were possible, it’s foolish to 
regret things that are passed. There is always a 
best to be got out of them.” 

(It was a sententious remark, and he knew it. 
But he made it deliberately.) 

May sat back and was silent ; he understood why. 
And then Lady Beatrice began. 


THE COWARD 


356 

It was when he got up at last to go that he had his 
first opportunity of speaking to Val. He looked at 
his hostess carefully as he shook hands, and that 
lady was quick enough to understand. 

“ Val,” she said, “ see Father Maple to the door. 
I don’t want your father to go out. He’s got a 
touch of cold. (No, my dear, I insist.) ” 

The boy came forward quickly and silently from 
the window-seat — he had not spoken one word 
since the priest had sat down to the piano — and the 
two went out together to the porch. 

“ What a heavenly night ! ” said the priest. 

He stood breathing in the heavy, fragrant night- 
smells of summer. It was a clear night overhead, 
but the dew-laden grass suffused the atmosphere 
with vapour, and the stars shone dim and soft. 
The great trees at the head of the slope opposite 
stood motionless blots against them. Somewhere 
in the gardens behind a nightingale began to sing. 

“ You won’t walk with me as far as the garden 
gate, I suppose ? ” said the priest. 

“ Why, yes,” said Val. 

All the way down through the gardens the priest 
talked on indifferent matters, with pauses, trying to 
put the boy at his ease and to give him an oppor- 
tunity of speaking if he wished. But Val answered 
in monosyllables, and only just enough for courtesy. 


THE COWARD 


357 


Once or twice the priest thought that the other’s 
silence was trembling on the edge of speech; but 
nothing happened. 

At the garden gate he said good-bye. 

“ Look in any time you like,” said the priest. 
“ I’m nearly always at home.” 

“ Thanks very much,” said Val, with a complete 
dispassionateness that told nothing. 

As the priest went on he listened for footsteps 
going back to the house, but there were none. Val 
was either still standing looking at the night, or had 
turned off across the wet grass for a lonely stroll. 

When Father Maple reached home he wrote a 
little note to Lady Beatrice, and set it out on his 
table to be taken up in the morning. 

“ Dear Lady Beatrice, 

“ I must thank you very much for a charm- 
ing evening. 

“ Your son walked with me a little way home- 
wards; but he was quite loyal to the conditions 
that have been laid on him. I still hold (since you 
are kind enough to allow me to say so) that these 
are very severe; and I should strongly advise your 
giving him to understand that he will not be trans- 
gressing them if he talks the matter over confiden- 
tially with someone whom he trusts, and who is 


358 


THE COWARD 


not intimately concerned with the story itself — the 
Vicar, for example. It is always dangerous to 
hammer down the safety-valve, I think. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ Arthur Maple. 

“ P.S. — Please don’t dream of sending an answer 
to this. It needs none.” 

He wrote this rather slowly, in his pointed small 
handwriting, hesitating now and again for a word, 
but with a kind of even decisiveness. He then read 
it through and sealed it and put it ready. 

Then he took up his office-book and sat down in 
his deep chair by the lamp. 


CHAPTER IV 


(i) 

/ | TRAGEDY and small ignominious infirmities 
A are, unhappily, not incompatible. If, on the 
one side, monumental sufferers could stride always 
in the limelight to the sound of muffled drums, with- 
out fear of the toothache or a cold in the head; or, 
on the other, if persons with the gout were immune 
from the great passions, the parts of both would be 
comparatively easy to play. But real difficulties 
begin to enter when the parts are mixed ; when the 
gentleman with a bad liver loses his only son, and, 
still more, when the tragedy king breaks his bootlace. 
For the whole focus is in an instant changed; the 
bereaved invalid is crushed by a sound for whose 
magnitude he was not prepared, and the purple-robe 
hero becomes as irritable and peevish as anyone else. 

Something of this kind happened to General Medd 
within a week of his son’s return from Cambridge. 

Now certainly General Medd was a sufferer on the 
large scale, and there was something magnificently 
pathetic and solemn about the way in which he bore 
himself. His very proper pride had been wounded 
359 


THE COWARD 


360 

in its most delicate spot; that which was the main- 
spring of his life, his central ideal, his most intimate 
and living gospel, had been smirched by his own son. 
It perhaps seems ridiculous to those who have not 
his ideals, yet it was a fact that, for him, however 
absurd it may appear to a democratic and common- 
sense age, the whole fabric of the whole of the 
nobility of life rested on honour and courage. It 
seemed that nothing was left that was worth having 
if these were gone. Austin, no doubt, was a con- 
solation; he might be a prig (as his father secretly 
suspected), but he was a straightforward and coura- 
geous prig; yet, after all, Austin had only done 
that which it was his duty to do, and Val had failed 
in the first and most elementary obligation which a 
gentleman could have. 

It was this sense of outrage, then, that he carried 
with him always ; and though he observed the condi- 
tions which he himself had made as loyally as was 
possible, the very sight of Val brought the outrage 
up again to the raw and sensitive surface. If Val 
had not returned for six months or a year after his 
crime, perhaps his father would have learned to 
manage his emotions more adequately. 

The first little outbreak came about in this way. 

The successor to Jimbo was a Scotch collie, mid- 
dle-aged when he arrived, and now approaching 


THE COWARD 


361 

senility. Yet he was not so old as not still to at- 
tempt sometimes to go out with the riders, though 
he usually dropped behind discreetly after a mile or 
two and returned home at his own pace. And on 
a certain evening in June, feeling, I suppose, par- 
ticularly buoyant, Laddie accompanied his master 
with a great deal of shrill barking and rather stiff 
careering all the long way round the woods as far 
as the further end of the village street, there intend- 
ing, it appeared, to leave them unnoticed and to slip 
up home by the farm and the gardens. His master 
knew his little ways by now, and was too tactful to 
interfere with them. 

Accordingly, as the three rode down by the school, 
intending to strike across the village and up into the 
wooded country beyond, Laddie began, with a show 
of intense absorption, to smell some palings which 
he knew perfectly by heart already. 

“ He’s beginning to hedge,” said May, smiling. 

“ Don’t notice him. He’s had quite enough exer- 
cise for to-day,” said the General. 

So Laddie smelt and smelt, edging nearer by 
every apparently unconsidered step to the route 
homewards, as the three passed on ; and it was cer- 
tainly his intention, upon their return an hour or two 
later, to greet them at the steps of the house with 
gestures and cries of mingled relief, love, and 
reproach. But they had hardly turned up the lane 


362 


THE COWARD 


out of sight before a lamentable clamour broke out 
behind them, and May wheeled her mare round on 
the instant. 

“ It’s that hateful retriever of Palmer’s,” she 
cried ; “ he’s at him again.” 

Now the General had been aware when he awoke 
this morning of an evil taste in his mouth, and on 
examining himself in the glass had detected a certain 
tinge of yellow in his eyes which caused him to 
avoid ham at breakfast, and to take a little sharp 
walking exercise after breakfast, swinging a heavy 
stick. But the liver, even when treated so promptly 
as this, is not always submissive, and all day long the 
old man had found it necessary to curb his tongue 
on matters which seemed to him very significant and 
tiresome. 

He too swung his horse round now sharply and 
irritably. 

“ Go and kill the brute ! ” he snapped. 

Val had turned with May, for he was exceedingly 
tender to animals, and by the time that the other two 
had ridden up was already on the scene. 

It was not a very pleasant sight. 

The big retriever, who was a born bully, resenting, 
it would appear, Laddie’s air of suspicion with 
respect to the railings within which he himself 
happened to live, had dashed violently out of the 
half-open garden gate and discharged himself, a 


THE COWARD 


363 

thunderbolt of black hair, white teeth, and blazing 
eyes, against the collie, whom he had bitten badly 
once or twice before. Laddie had responded gal- 
lantly, but too late; and by the time that his master 
came up he was down on the ground shrieking and 
struggling, with the big black brute striding over 
him, endeavouring, to the sound of really terrify- 
ing snarls, to get his teeth firmly and deeply into 
the throat. Laddie was making great play with his 
frilled hind-legs, scratching and kicking upwards; 
but he was at least five years the senior, and had, 
besides, been taken at a disadvantage. 

“ Good Gad ! he’s killing him,” cried the General. 
“ Separate them, Val . . . quick.” 

Val was off his horse in an instant, even before 
his father had finished speaking ; but it was not easy 
to see exactly what to do. The retriever was leap- 
ing from side to side, snarling like a demon, pivoted, 
as it were, by his teeth in the other’s ruff. Laddie 
was shrieking, as only a collie can; and a cloud of 
dust rolled and bellied out, now hiding, now reveal- 
ing the twisting, tearing bodies beneath. Mrs. 
Palmer herself had run out of the cottage, and was 
lamenting with upraised hands the unseemly spec- 
tacle. The noise and confusion were bewildering. 

“ Get at them, Val,” roared the General, with the 
note of anger very audible. 

Yet still the boy hesitated. Honestly and sin- 


364 


THE COWARD 


cerely he did not quite know what to do. To seize 
the retriever would not be easy, and he did not know 
where to seize him; to snatch at Laddie might only 
make matters worse. 

Then, as he hesitated, came a roar from the 
General : 

“ You damned coward ! ” 

And a hatless figure rushed past the boy with up- 
raised hunting-crop. Whack followed whack, now 
on the retriever, now on the unhappy Laddie; but 
the fury of the onset was so great, and its general 
moral effect so stupendous, that the retriever sud- 
denly dropped his hold and fled with a howl of pain 
and dismay. Laddie leaped to his feet, and, with his 
tail between his legs, fled in the opposite direction, 
his shrill, hysterical bark dying away at last in 
the friendly shelter of the Home Farm gate. 

The General turned on his son in a flare of rage. 

“ Afraid of a couple of dogs, are you? ” 

Val looked at him, white as a sheet. If he had 
been conscious of deliberate cowardice he would 
have felt it less; but, on the contrary, as he had 
sprung off his horse, he had driven down by an act 
of the will the perfectly natural hesitation that every 
living being would have to interfere too suddenly; 
and he had not thrown himself into the fray simply 
because he was honestly doubtful of what was best 
to do. 


THE COWARD 


365 

And, on the other hand, his father, brooding (as 
he had) day after day on the cowardice of his son, 
was perfectly certain that here was one more 
instance of it; and his excitement and the state of 
his liver had compelled him to express his opinion 
with a force which he would otherwise have avoided. 
So the two, father and son, eyed one another, both 
alight with emotion and hostility. May looked at 
them both with dismay, and Mrs. Palmer went dis- 
creetly indoors again. 

Then Val went to his horse, mounted, and rode 
homeward after Laddie, leaving the two silent. 

(n) 

The next incident of importance with regard to 
the development of Val took place in July. 

The father and son had never mentioned the dog- 
fight affair to one another. The General had dis- 
cussed it with his wife, and had come to the 
conclusion that possibly he had been a little hasty 
in expressing an undeniable truth; for he entirely 
rejected the mother’s theory that perhaps Val had 
really not known what to do. And Val discussed it 
with nobody. May had attempted it, but he had 
silenced her. 

His mother had passed on Father Maple’s sugges- 
tion as if it came from herself. She had told him, 
after a good deal of hesitation, that promises of 


3 66 


THE COWARD 


silence (she specified nothing further than this) 
did not apply to spiritual advisers (wondering at 
her own Jesuitry as she said it) ; and that if Val 
cared to talk over his affairs with Mr. Arbuthnot or 
. . . or with anyone else, she was sure that he 

would not be breaking any pledges he had ever made. 
Val had met her suggestion with a polite air of 
interest and silence. 

Then, about the middle of July, the second inci- 
dent took place. 

There was a week-end party in the house. This 
year the Medds had not taken a house in town, as 
they usually did — the doctor had said that the 
General would be better in the country — and in- 
stead they entertained people from Fridays to Tues- 
days about twice a month. 

At this week-end there were several old friends, 
among whom, as an intellectual giant, towered Pro- 
fessor Macintosh. The Merediths too were here; 
Austin; and finally Miss Marjoribanks, who, having 
steadily refused to come before, for reasons not 
given, consented at last to visit May, on condition 
that there were plenty of other guests. May im- 
agined, very naturally, that her hesitation rose from 
her remembrance of the Rome affair. 

It was actually on the first Friday evening that 
the thing happened. 


THE COWARD 


367 


The smoking-room at Medhurst opened out of the 
billiard-room in the north wing; and hither, when 
the ladies had gone to bed, proceeded Professor 
Macintosh, in all the glory of his velvet and frills 
and skull-cap. He found the Merediths, father and 
son, already there — the father, with his hands 
behind his back, circling slowly round the room, 
looking at the pale-coloured sporting engravings; 
and Tom, seated in a long chair, earnestly and 
silently smoking a briar pipe. (Tom was one of 
those people who only do one thing at a time, and 
do it very seriously.) 

Sir James Meredith privately thought Professor 
Macintosh an ass, and at the same time a reward- 
ing ass. He enjoyed, in fact, helping him to say 
characteristic things, which he would recount to 
his friends afterwards. This time, however, the 
Professor needed no assistance. 

“ Sad thing about this boy, isn’t it?” he began 
briskly, even before he sat down. “ And got very 
interesting. It’s a case of what we scientific gentle- 
men call a freak.” 

This was a very promising beginning, thought the 
lawyer. It was always amusing when the Professor 
spoke for his supposed colleagues. But he had not 
an idea to what he referred; so it pleased him to 
rally him on his absentmindedness. ( Sham geniuses 
always respond to that, as flowers to the sun.) 


3 68 


THE COWARD 


He turned from his coloured engravings and sat 
down. 

“ You thinkers and students always begin in the 
middle,” he said, with an air of humorous respect. 
“ May I ask what you happen to be talking about? ” 

The Professor beamed. (He found this rallying 
line very pleasant.) 

“ Why, about young Valentine. One of the 
keepers was telling me about it before dinner. A 
new man, I think. I haven’t seen him before.” 

“ What’s young Valentine been doing?” asked 
the lawyer. (He glanced, as a mere precaution, at 
the billiard-room double doors. They appeared to 
be closed.) 

The Professor told him, fitting his fingers together 
as he had once seen Dr. Huxley do, and wearing an 
air of intense and yet detached scientific interest. It 
was especially interesting to him, as a sociological 
student, he said. Here were the Medds — good old 
family, with medieval instincts ; the strain was very 
pure; and here, suddenly, had appeared a freak — 
a boy with the heart of a rabbit. He wondered 
whether the alien characteristic had come from Lady 
Beatrice’s side. He would look into Lady Beatrice’s 
ancestry. Of course he said, too, some kind things ; 
he remarked how distressing it all was — par- 
ticularly as it had got out somehow into the village, 
probably through a servant’s talking — some servant 


THE COWARD 


369 


who had known of Austin’s wound and had, perhaps, 
overheard something he should not. At any rate, 
the new keeper had told him a story that hung 
together very well, and it seemed to him to fit in 
perfectly with little things he had noticed. Of 
course the General knew nothing of the talk of the 
village ; and 

At this moment the General came in from the 
corridor, with Austin; and the lawyer instantly 
remarked : 

“ Yes, I think these engravings are originals. 
. . . I’ve just been looking at your engravings. 

They seem to me capital.” 

The General made a suitable remark. Then Sir 
James got up. 

“ Excuse me. May I shut this door? ” 

He went to the billiard-room doors and closed 
them. But he first glanced into the room. It was 
empty. And yet just before he spoke there had 
been a sudden vibration of the doors, as if the 
further one, opening into the corridor, had been 
opened. But the room was empty. Therefore 
someone had left the billiard- room immediately 
after the General had come into the smoking-room. 
This was logic. . . . But of course it might 

have been a servant. 

The lawyer sat down, and was rather silent. And 
Val did not appear. 


370 


THE COWARD 


(m) 

The Professor, of course, was a great deal too 
much emancipated to go to church. When you have 
reached a position in the scientific world sufficiently 
eminent to justify your wearing a crimson skull-cap 
and a frilly shirt, you need no longer consider con- 
ventions ; and there is, of course, no reason, beyond 
that of convention, why you should go through the 
wearisome form of addressing a Being whose lowest 
form is a kind of jelly on the seashore and whose 
highest development is yourself. Self-communing 
becomes the only intelligent method of adoration. 

But the Professor observed the Sabbath, for all 
that. He said that the instinct of those old nomads 
was remarkable; and that the brain and body were 
none the worse for one day’s rest in seven, and that 
he, for one, deplored the modern rush and lack of 
repose. 

So when the party assembled in the hall on 
Sunday to walk down to church — Sir James, as 
usual, presenting a perfect model of a God-fearing 
English gentleman — the Professor took occasion to 
pass through in leather slippers, with a thin, volu*- 
minous grey plaid over his shoulders, and to 
announce that he proposed to go and sit in the 
summer-house above the cedars until worship was 


THE COWARD 


37i 

done. He also displayed a green-covered work on 
Parasites, which he intended to study. 

At about twelve o’clock he closed his eyes, the 
better to think over what he had been reading. 
The summer air was hot and enervating, the splash 
of the fountain at the foot of the slope was soothing, 
the hum of the flies about him almost somniferous : 
so it was possible that he dozed. He had not read a 
great deal about Parasites, for he had been rash 
enough to take with him as well, after the church- 
party had gone, a number of the Pall Mall Magazine 
which he had not previously read, and this now lay, 
face down and opened, upon his knees, upon a fold 
of the grey plaid. . . . 

The next thing of which he was aware was that 
the door of the summer-house was darkened, and 
with the natural genius of a great mind he concluded 
that someone was standing in it. So he opened his 
eyes, simultaneously snatching away the Pall Mall 
M agazine. 

Then he saw that it was Val. 

“ Can you give me ten minutes ? ” asked the boy, 
who seemed breathless, as if he had been running. 
(He appeared to pay no attention to the Pall Mall 
Magazine . ) 

The Professor sprang up. 


37 2 


THE COWARD 


“ Why, certainly,” he said. 

“ Do you mind just coming up into the woods ? I 
think the others may be coming here.” 

The Professor ingeniously enfolded the magazine, 
which he had been holding out of sight, under the 
grey plaid, presenting only for view the green book 
on Parasites, and the two went together through the 
little swing-gate by the summer-house, up into the 
fringe of the woods, that here encroached right 
down on the garden fence. Then they sat down, 
oddly enough in the very place where Val three or 
four years ago had lain and dreamed of prowess and 
nobility. 

“ Look here,” said Val abruptly, “ I must ask 
you two or three questions. Do you mind ? I don’t 
believe any more in all that down there ” — (he 
jerked his head towards the village and the squat 
Norman tower) — “ and I want to know what scien- 
tists think.” 

“ But, my dear young man ” began the Pro- 

fessor reprovingly. 

Val turned a white face on him. 

“ Please don’t jaw about that,” he said. “ I 
know you don’t believe it either. . . . Well, 

but this is what I want to ask you about. You 
know I heard everything you said in the smoking- 
room on Friday night.” 

“ Eh ” began the Professor. 


THE COWARD 


373 

“ I was in the billiarcl-room. I heard my name, 
and then I listened on purpose.” 

“ You did very wrong,” exclaimed the Professor 

energetically. “ And I’m not at all sure ” 

“ You can’t tell my father, anyhow,” said Val. 
“ You see, he thinks nobody knows except himself 
and the rest of us. So let’s leave all that. What 
I want to know is whether it’s my fault, and whether 
I could ever get over it ? ” 

The Professor’s mind whirled wildly a moment or 
two. He was not accustomed to human problems, 
and knew nothing whatever about them. He was 
accustomed to treat of human beings merely as a 
development of protoplasm, and to consider that 
which was not protoplastic, so to speak, as negli- 
gible. He was a kindly old man in his way, very 
complacent and positive. But even without those 
qualities he could see that the boy was badly upset. 
So he attempted to soothe him. 

“ Look here, my boy,” he said. “ Better leave 
all those problems alone. Just do your best; don’t 
be too hard on yourself, and don’t think too much 
about it all. We’ve all got our flaws somewhere, 
and it’s no good taking them too hardly.” 

“ You mean that these flaws are incurable then? 
That we can’t change ourselves? That’s just what 
I want to know. I’m born flawed, and I can’t 
alter it?” 


374 


THE COWARD 


“ Of course we can do something by effort/’ said 
the Professor judicially; “ always supposing that 
there’s sufficient impetus from outside forces. But 
we’ve all got our limitations, and it’s far wiser to 
recognise them. No one can possibly blame you 
for being what you are — no philosopher, that is; 
I think none the worse of you, I assure you, 
my boy, for not . . . not having as much 

nerve as your brother, for instance. We’re all the 
creatures of our descent, our education, and so on. 
Scientists are beginning to think that we’re practi- 
cally formed when we’re two or three years old. 
Every year that passes after that makes us less 
and less plastic. At least that’s what Science 
tells us.” 

“ That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” said 
Val quietly — “ what Science says. Then . . . 

then I must make the best of myself? I can’t be 
blamed for what I do ? ” 

“ Not by a philosopher,” said the Professor. 
“ Of course uninstructed people ” 

The boy jerked his head. The look of strain in 
his eyes became more set and fixed each instant. 

“ I don’t mind about them,” he said. “ I want to 
know the facts. . . . And then there’s one 

more thing. . . 

“ Yes, my boy,” said the Professor encouragingly. 
He was delighted to find so apt a pupil. 


THE COWARD 


375 

“ It’s about the life after death. What does 
Science say about that ? ” 

The Professor paused. He wished to be per- 
fectly fair. 

“ If there is a life after death,” he said at last, “ it 
falls outside the purview of Science. Science deals 
with physical phenomena ; with the body, the 
mechanism of the brain, and so on. She knows 
nothing of the soul; she deals only with that which, 
if there is a soul, is merely its instrument.” 

“ She knows nothing of the soul,” repeated the 
boy. “ That means that Science does not recognise 
it as a fact ; that there is nothing to show that there 
is such a thing. Is that right ? ” 

The Professor bowed his head. 

“ That is so,” he said. “ Certainly there are 
certain claims made by non-scientific people which, 
if they are facts, cannot at present be explained by 
Physical Science. . But that does not prove that they 
will not be explained some day; if, that is to say, 
they really are facts.” 

Val lifted his head impatiently. He had been 
staring steadily down, frowning, with pressed lips, at 
the moss and dead leaves beside him. He had been 
quite quiet and quite business-like throughout. 

“ Well,” he said, “ to be short — Science says that 
there’s no evidence that there’s a soul, or a life 
after death. Is that right ? ” 


37 ^ 


THE COWARD 


“ That, I think,” said the Professor solemnly “ is 
a fair summary. But ” 

The boy got up, heavily, but with a determined, 
final kind of air. 

“ Thanks, very much,” he said. “ That’s all 
I wanted to know. ... I think the others are 
coming.” 

(IV) 

It was a curiously trying week-end for Gertie 
Marjoribanks. But she had seen that she must face 
sometime a meeting with Val on their new footing, 
and had determined to get it over. To have delayed 
much longer would have been to have aroused 
suspicion; and if there was one thing of which she 
was vehemently and energetically ashamed, it was 
of that boy-and-girl engagement into which she had 
so sentimentally entered last Christmas, and so 
courageously broken off again at Easter. She had 
quite decided by now never to tell anyone about it — 
not even May. 

Her feelings towards Val were remarkably keen, 
and their sharpness when she had first set eyes on 
him after her arrival had surprised even herself. 
She hated, as she confessed to herself when she went 
upstairs to dress for dinner, after shaking hands 
with him in the hall, the very sight of him. It 
seemed to her that he belonged now to a part of her 


THE COWARD 


377 


life for which she had nothing but resentment and 
shame. It was abominable to her to remember that 
they had kissed one another. . . . 

For the reaction was complete. She had taken 
him on a certain valuation, and in the enthusiasm of 
his service to her in the woods between here and 
Penshurst, had, so to speak, abandoned herself alto- 
gether to her feelings. He had stood to her for 
her perfect knight; he was to be her defender, her 
Percival, her king. The blow he had struck for her 
in Rome, on the steps of the Pincian, had been 
magnificent in her eyes ; and it had reached a trans- 
figuration when, to the gaiety of the hidden band in 
the hotel, she had raised to him her tiny glass of 
Chartreuse. So far she had flung the whole of her 
schoolgirl idealism into the fire, and it had blazed 
into glory, filling her world with flame. . . . 

He had been to her Lohengrin in silver armour, 
Caruso in tights — her gentle, perfect knight. And 
then, with a crash, her world had tumbled; and to 
her rather theatrical but sincerely passionate nature, 
it seemed that the intolerable shame had enveloped 
not him only, but herself. Exactly at that moment 
when heaven should have opened, the earth had 
opened instead ; and there, in the pit, lay she and he. 

So she had set herself during these two months to 
climb out. It was a consolation that someone had 
fought for her; but she could not allow herself to 


THE COWARD 


378 

dwell on this until she was again on safe ground. 
It was not until she had built up her world once 
more, until she had scoured by resentment and 
interior fury the last remnants of Val from her soul, 
that she could dare to see him again, or to talk even 
with Austin. And when she had seen Val again, in 
the hall at Medhurst, standing a little apart from the 
others as he ought, and had taken his hand and let 
go of it again, it required all her powers of will and 
energy not to show her loathing for the boy who had 
failed her so cruelly. 

It was a terrible pleasure to her to notice his 
isolation: she saw that he had no place in his 
home; that the deliberate kindness of his mother 
emphasised his loneliness all the more ; that the silent 
overlooking of him by his father must surely keep 
the wound open. She took a certain pleasure even, 
when she had recovered herself after the first shock 
(for she had distinctly a touch of tiger-blood in her 
nature), in talking to him rather ostentatiously, in 
a very clear and distinct voice, in order to show to 
him and to herself her sure, supreme detachment. 

This lasted for forty-eight hours ; and then on the 
Sunday evening, for the first time, compassion made 
itself felt — a little cloud of it, like a man’s hand. 

Sunday evening in summer has a peculiarly senti- 
mental effect upon young persons, especially if they 


THE COWARD 


379 


have been to church; and Gertie, who was a little 
devote sometimes, had not only been to church with 
May, but had assisted in the singing of “Hark! 
hark, my soul ! ” after the sermon, and had been 
played out of church to the strains of “ O rest in 
the Lord.” 

Then she had come up to cold supper, and had 
drunk a little Moselle. Then she had put a filmy 
wrap about her head, and gone out with Austin into 
the gardens at the back of the house. (Austin, she 
had noticed, was quite polite always to Val; but 
occasionally did not seem to notice that he was 
there.) 

It was a delicious evening, warm and perfumed, 
and a belated nightingale (perhaps the same that 
had sung to Val and the priest three weeks ago) was 
recalling fragments of his old early-summer song. 
Again, too, the stars were dim and soft — a whole 
vault of them, set in grey velvet. The tall trees 
were motionless, and the flower-beds gave off the 
cool reflex perfume that comes from such after a hot 
day. 

They went across the lawn under the cedar and 
down upon the first of the terrace walks that fall 
towards the village; and there they stood presently, 
leaning on the stonework, without speaking. Be- 
hind them, beyond the huge cedar, glowed the tall 
windows of the house, open to catch the evening air, 


380 


THE COWARD 


and now and then a spoken word or two came to 
them. 

This was a most fitting scene for the close of 
Sunday : the emotional effect of the evening service 
was not yet exhausted in the girl’s mind ; everything 
seemed to her to-night very holy and peaceful and 
complete. . . . 

Presently she lifted her arm from the cool stone 
and began to go slowly up towards the end of the 
terrace furthest from the house, and Austin went 
with her. Their thin shoes made hardly any sound 
at all on the paved walk; but just as they got near 
the end Austin made a remark. She answered it; 
and at this instant reached the end, just in time 
to see Val, perfectly recognisable in the twilight, 
moving quickly away from a seat just below the 
balustraded end of the terrace. He was going with 
quick, noiseless steps on tiptoe, obviously unaware 
that they were so close, and, equally obviously, 
intending to get away round the shubbery before 
he was seen. 

It was then, for the first time, that compassion 
laid a finger-tip on her heart. The boy had slipped 
out, she saw, immediately after supper, and had 
come out here alone, to brood. He had found, he 
thought, a safe refuge ; and there he was now, steal- 
ing away into the dark for fear that he should 
interrupt or be interrupted. 


THE COWARD 381 

She said nothing ; nor did Austin till they reached 
again the further end of the terrace. 

Then — 

“That was Val, wasn’t it?” she said. 

“ I think so,” said Austin indifferently. 

“ Does he . . . does he feel it all very much ? ” 
“ He’s got to,” said Austin briefly. “ It’s his 
best chance, poor brute.” 


CHAPTER V 


(i) 

46T’VE got to send into East Grinstead,” an- 

A nounced Lady Beatrice at breakfast on the 
following Wednesday morning. “ Does anybody 
want anything? The dog-cart’s going at eleven.” 

There seemed no demand. 

Everybody had gone away yesterday. Even Aus- 
tin had gone. Gertie had been loudly reproached 
by May, but had declared an uncancellable engage- 
ment to be photographed, and she had travelled up 
to town, under Austin’s escort. The Professor had 
gone. He had sought out Val once more before he 
had left, and had endeavoured to impress a more 
genial and human philosophy upon him than that 
which had been propagated in the summer-house on 
Sunday; and had been surprised, and a little ag- 
grieved, by the boy’s apparent lack of interest. And 
the Merediths were gone — all three of them ; Tom 
and his father still preserving their air of imper- 
turbability throughout, treating Val with exactly the 
same friendly but detached air as that which they 
382 


THE COWARD 


383 


had shown before the Professor’s disclosures. 
There were left then at Medhurst, once again, the 
General, Lady Beatrice, May, and Val. (I forgot 
to add Miss Deverell.) 

At about half-past eleven Lady Beatrice thought 
to put into effect a decision she had arrived at two 
days before — namely, to have a good talk with Val 
herself. She had perceived, unmistakably, the 
aloofness in which he had walked during this week- 
end; and, as Gertie had seen, had rather increased 
the boy’s embarrassment by trying to draw him into 
public conversation. He had been polite, but im- 
penetrable. So that, now that the guests were gone, 
it seemed to her a good chance to find him and to 
say a word or two. . . . The sense of burden 

was increasing on her with every day that went by. 

About half-past eleven, then, she took up her stick, 
and limped through the hall and up the staircase 
that led to his rooms. The fine weather had broken, 
and since breakfast a steady rain had been falling. 
She was almost certain, then, of finding him upstairs 
in the room that he and Austin still called their own. 

She came down the passage, tapped (as her cus- 
tom was), and then, hearing no answer, went in. 
Val was not there. But she stood, looking about her 
for a minute, before ringing to make enquiries. 
The room was as she had always known it, rather 
untidy, very boyish, and with an appearance of try- 


3^4 


THE COWARD 


in g to be a caricature of a real smoking-room. A 
_ couple of small books lay in the seat of a chair; and 
she glanced at them. They seemed to her very 
dull. One was by a man called Haeckel; and 
another by a man called Laing. Then she rang the 
bell and sat down. 

It was a fairish long wait before anyone came, 
and she was just going to ring again when Charles, 
the footman, came in. 

“ Do you know where Master Val is? ” she said. 
“ Please find him, and say I’m up here.” 

“ Yes, m’lady.” 

Charles disappeared, walking a good deal quicker 
than he had come, and while she waited she again 
looked at the books by Messrs. Haeckel and Laing, 
and found them duller than ever. There were dis- 
agreeable diagrams of man-like monkeys, or mon- 
key-like men — she was not sure which, as long 
Latin names were printed beneath them — on sev- 
eral of the pages. Then Charles came back. 

“ Please m’lady, Master Val’s gone in with the 
dog-cart.” 

“ Where? To East Gr instead? ” 

“ Yes, m’lady. He came down to the stables 
just before it started.” 

She lifted herself out of the chair. (Charles* the 
footman, handed her her stick deferentially )' ljt 
was no good waiting then. 


THE COWARD 


385 


“ Let me know when the dog-cart comes back,” 
she said. “ You needn’t say anything to Master 
Val. I’ll speak to him myself.” 

“ Very good, m’lady.” 

But she was quite unconscious of the depth of her 
own uneasiness until she ran into Val in the hall 
just before lunch, and was aware of a perfectly 
clear sense of relief at the sight of him. He was 
just hanging up his cap on the stag-horns near the 
door. 

“ Why — where have you been, my boy ? I was 
looking for you.” 

“ Been to East Grinstead,” said Val steadily. 

“ But you didn’t tell me — ” 

“ No. I only thought of it after breakfast. 
There were one or two things I wanted to get.” 

“ And you got them all right ? ” 

“ Yes, thanks,” said Val. 

“ Well, come along in to lunch.” 

And she took his arm in friendly and maternal 
fashion to help her along. 

(n) 

About seven o’clock the same evening she sought 
him again, once more painfully picking her way 
up the slippery stairs. She would have half an 
hour or so before the dressing-bell rang; and she 


3^6 


THE COWARD 


preferred to find him, as it were informally, rather 
than make an appointment. 

And the last stimulus she had received, causing 
her to come up this evening rather than to wait for 
to-morrow, was a short conversation between herself 
and Miss Deverell. 

“Jane,” she had suddenly said after tea when 
May and the men had gone, “ Jane, I’m not satisfied 
about Val. There’s something the matter with 
him.” 

“I think so myself,” said Miss Deverell drily 
(who of course had been told of the disaster, and 
had made no comment on it). 

The other jumped. (One never got accustomed 
to Miss Deverell’s characteristics. The suddenly 
startling little sentences that she fired off half a 
dozen times a week were always unexpected.) 

“ Oh ! you think so too ? ” said Lady Beatrice 
rather feebly. 

“ The boy is unhappy,” pursued Jane energet- 
ically. “ But I am not his mother.” 

“ I’ll go and see him.” 

“ I think you had better.” 

Here then she came. 

This time she was more fortunate. Val’s voice 
answered her tap, and he sprang up from the deep 
chair as she appeared. 

“ Doing anything important, my son ? ” 


THE COWARD 


387 


“ No, mother.” 

“Just sitting by yourself? ” 

“ Just sitting by myself,” repeated the boy in a 
perfectly even tone. 

She took care not to look at him particularly as 
she slowly sat down; but she was none the less 
conscious that something was seriously the matter. 
It was not exactly depression that she perceived; 
rather it was a tense kind of excitement. His face 
was quite resolute ; his voice quite steady ; and there 
ran through both a sense that something was tight- 
stretched somewhere. There was no longer that 
miserable sort of laxity that she had noticed before, 
nor that subtle tone of self-defence that had been 
apparent a good many times in public. Rather there 
was a ring of confidence in his voice . . . and 

yet that same barrier of secretiveness hid its mean- 
ing from her. It seemed to her rather unwhole- 
some. 

“ Tell me about Cambridge,” she said. “ Have 
you had a nice term ? ” 

Val paused a moment. Then, with complete self- 
possession, he proceeded to give her the kind of 
account of the term which a nephew would give to 
a maiden aunt, without the humour. It was quite 
intelligible; it was full of information; and it was 
perfectly superficial. He allowed no emotion to 
appear; he did not permit the smallest chink of light 


THE COWARD 


388 

to penetrate his own feelings. He spoke of his 
lectures and the Lent vaes. . . . 

“ Oh, yes,” said Lady Beatrice inattentively. 
“ And what do you want to do during the vacation ? 
Wouldn’t you like to go away somewhere — with 
Austin, or one of your friends?” 

Again came that deliberate little pause. 

“ I hadn’t thought of it,” said Val. “ I rather 
thought of stopping here — altogether.” 

And then she couldn’t bear it any longer. It was 
intolerable to her to sit here and be excluded from 
him so completely. A wall was between them, and 
she could see neither over it nor through it. Only 
she was aware that he was suffering behind it; and 
a rush of tenderness surged up in her. 

“ My boy, what’s the matter with you ? ” 

Again there was a moment’s silence. She had 
stretched out one jewelled hand towards him in an 
unconscious gesture, as if to invite his own to be 
laid in it ; but he did not move. Indeed, she thought 
for an instant that he was going to give way; the 
sense of strain grew tighter than ever. But it did 
not break. 

“ Nothing’s the matter,” he said. 

“ Listen, my boy,” she began hurriedly. “ I 
understand perfectly that you’re unhappy. And of 
course I know why. But I did just want to tell you 
this — that nothing you’ve ever done or not done 


THE COWARD 


389 


can make any difference to me. You mustn’t think 
hardly of your father; he’s a man, you know, and 
thinks slowly. But he’s very fond of you. . . . 

That’s why he feels as he does. We’re all fond of 
you, Val.” 

Val swallowed in his throat. And then the bitter- 
ness burst out : he clasped one hand tightly with the 
other, and began to speak. An appalling venom 
was in every phrase, and his face worked. 

“ Fond of me, is he? Really ! And he called me 
a coward before the whole village. That’s what he 
thinks of me! Really! I don’t see how he can 
be fond of me if he thinks that. . . . And he 

hasn’t withdrawn it, or said he was sorry. . . .” 

“ Val ! ” (She was sitting upright now, terrified 
and amazed.) 

“ He treats me like a dog ... a cur. And 
I dare say I am one. I know I am one. . . . 

Have I ever denied it? Well, I didn’t ask to be 
born. It’s not my fault. . . . But don’t let’s 
pretend he’s fond of me. . . . How could he 
be?” 

“Val! Val! . . .” (Her voice was implor- 

ing, not shocked.) 

“ Then why can’t I be let alone, to ... to 
return to my own vomit, as the Bible says? I 
only ask to be let alone, to go my own way. I’m 
not doing any harm to anyone, am I? . . . 


390 


THE COWARD 


except by being alive. And that ” (He broke 

off.) “Well, why can’t I be let alone? IVe been 
keeping away as much as I can. ... I don’t 
think I’ve bothered anyone much. . . . And 

you will try to drag me into things, and make me 
talk . . . and try to pump me. I won’t be 

pumped. I’m a beast and a cur, am I ? Very well ; 
then let me behave like one . . . and . . . 

and keep to myself. Father and you have got 
Austin, haven’t you? and May? What more do 
you want? Why can’t I be left alone? ” 

“ Val, you oughtn’t to speak to me like that.” 

“ Who began it ? I didn’t. I haven’t come 
whining to you, even if I am a cur! But even 
rats turn, you know, in a corner.” 

“ Oh ! my boy, I didn’t come up here to bother 
you ” wailed the mother. 

He drew a sharp breath; and his passion seemed 
to pass. 

“ Very well, mother; I’m sorry. There, will that 
do?” 

“ I didn’t come up to bother you. I had no idea 
you were feeling like this. I thought you were just 
unhappy, and hurt perhaps . . . perhaps ...” 

Her beautiful eyes suddenly ran over and her 
voice choked. 

“ I’m sorry, mother,” said Val, steadily refusing 


THE COWARD 


39i 


to look at her. “I’ma beast ... I know that 
well enough.” She was relieved by her tears, and 
she looked up at him, with her eyes still swimming. 
He was sitting hunched up in his chair, his hands 
clasped round his knees ; his face was colourless and 
fallen. But there was not the faintest sign of soft- 
ness there. He had pulled in his horns; but his 
shell was still impenetrable, and she perceived that 
he meant to keep it so. 

“ Val, I won’t trouble you any more now. You’re 
feeling it all too bitterly. But, my boy, do remem- 
ber that I care, dreadfully. I’ve been miserable 
about you.” 

He remained expressionless. 

“ I wonder whether you wouldn’t like to talk to 
someone else. There’s Father Maple . . .if 

you don’t care to talk to the Vicar. He’s a good 
man. I’m sure he is. And he’d understand.” 

“ Thanks very much,” said Val, resembling a pool 
in a dead calm, after storm. 

“ Well, will you ? I could send a note down. Or 
you could go yourself, to-morrow morning?” 

“ I won’t forget,” said Val dully. 

She stood up. He gave her her stick, as he would 
give it to a stranger. Again that wall was between 
them; but she was thankful for it now. She must 


392 


THE COWARD 


try to forget, she told herself, the glimpse she had 
had of what lay beyond. He would quiet down 
presently. . . . 

“ Give me a kiss,” she said, trying to smile. 

He kissed her, and his lips and eyes were like 
stone. 


(m)’ 

She had reached the top of the stairs, that night 
at bedtime, with Miss Deverell beside her, when she 
paused. 

“ Go on, Jane,” she said. “ I want to go and 
speak to Val a moment.” 

Dinner had passed off quietly enough. She had 
said a word to her husband about the boy when they 
were alone together in the hall before going in, but 
he had shaken his head, with grim lips, without 
speaking. But she had understood from his silence 
that she might speak to the boy as she liked. At 
dinner she and May had done most of the talking. 
Val had sat at the lower end of the table, next Miss 
Deverell, and had answered shortly but quite ade- 
quately, when he was spoken to. Before the candles 
and glasses were brought in he had slipped off, and 
had gone in the direction of his rooms, without 
wishing anyone good night. And now she too was 
going to bed, and thought she would like to say a 


THE COWARD 


393 


word to him first, to reassure herself rather than 
him. She intended to speak about Father Maple 
again in the morning — not to-night, for fear the 
boy should think himself persecuted. 

Her heart beat a little apprehensively as she 
tapped at his sitting-room door. There was an in- 
stant’s delay before he answered. Then she went 
in; and he was just rising from the writing-table 
in the window, and closing the big leather blotting- 
book. 

“ I came to wish you good night, my son.” 

She went up to him slowly, leaning on her 
stick, as he stood with his back to the writing- 
table, as if guarding it. She noticed that he kept 
one hand upon the blotting-book as he leaned 
towards her. 

“ Good night, mother,” he said, and kissed her. 

But somehow she did not feel as much reassured 
by the sight of him as she had hoped. He was 
quite quiet; but the excitement she had seen blaze 
out three hours ago was still there, somewhere 
far down beneath the surface. It glowed there, like 
life in a sleeper. 

She looked round the room, as easily as she could, 
with an air of interest. 

“ It’s rather shabby, Val,” she said. “ I wonder 
whether you’d like new curtains. Aren’t these your 
Eton ones ? ” 


394 THE COWARD 


“ Yes.” 

“ Wouldn’t you like some new ones? And per- 
haps a carpet ? ” 

“ Oh ! these’ll do very well,” he said. 

“ That’s the list of the Boats, isn’t it? ” she asked, 
going up to the framed paper on the wall by the fire- 
place. 

“ Yes.” 

She looked down the list. There was his name. 
Medd mi . — the third in the list of the St. George; 
as he had pointed it out to her proudly six or seven 
years ago. It had meant a lot to him then. 

“ How pleased you were,” she said, turning to 
him and smiling, “ when you first got into the 
Boats.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What’s this? ” she said suddenly, looking curi- 
ously at another object under a glass dome. 

“ Which?” 

“ This, under the glass.” 

“Oh! that’s a bit of stone off the top of the 
Matterhorn.” 

She smiled. 

“ I remember,” she said. “ Austin brought it 
back with him, and showed it us in the dining-room. 
Do you remember? May’s got another, in her 
room.” 


“ Yes,” said Val. 


THE COWARD 


395 


“ How sorry you were not to be able to climb it 
too. . . . Val, wouldn’t you like to go out 
again some day, and do it ? ” 

“ I’m afraid I haven’t the head for it,” said Val 
grimly. “ Besides ” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Think about it,” she said. “ Perhaps your 
father would let you go this September. You and 
Austin might go, if he can get away. You’d like 
that, I expect. Or perhaps Tom Meredith would 
go. He generally goes about then.” 

She was doing her utmost to lift the level to a less 
tragic point; for it was nothing short of tragedy that 
was in the air of this room — a boy’s heroics, no 
doubt, yet as overwhelming, subjectively, to the boy 
as calf-love itself. She was trying, then, to be 
natural and ordinary and friendly; perhaps that 
would keep him better than explanations ; those be- 
fore dinner, at any rate, had not been very success- 
ful. 

“ Well, good night again, my son,” she said, as 
she went at last across the floor. “ Sleep well.” 

“ Good night, mother,” he said. “ I’ll try . . .” 

Outside the door she paused and listened. But 
there was dead silence, except for a sudden gust of 
rain below against the passage window. It had been 


396 


THE COWARD 


raining off and on all day, and now that night was 
come the wind seemed getting up too. 

She went noiselessly down the passage, scarcely 
using her stick. She did not want him to think she 
had been listening outside the door. As she reached 
the end she turned again in the dark shadow, and as 
she did so the door of the sitting-room she had left 
opened suddenly and swiftly; a head was thrust out, 
then withdrawn; and she heard the key turn in the 
lock. ... At any rate he had not seen her. 

(IV) 

She found it hard to sleep that night. 

Soon after the stable clock struck twelve she heard 
her husband come up to the dressing-room next to 
hers, where he slept, and softly push open the door 
between them, as his custom was, in case she called 
to him in the night. But she did not speak ; he was 
apt to be upset if he found her awake so late. 

She had said her prayers as usual, with Dr. Ken’s 
evening hymn at the end : — 

“ Teach me to live, that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed. 

Teach me to die. . . .” And so on. 

She remembered how she had felt the irony of 
this in the first days after her accident, when she had 
feared her bed at night considerably more than she 


THE COWARD 


397 


hoped to fear the grave, when the time came. And 
now as she lay in bed to-night, looking out at the 
tall old walls about her, just visible in the glow of 
the night-light, at the rows of photographs over the 
mantelpiece, the gleaming points on the dressing- 
table, the tilted, ghostly-looking, full-length mirror 
by the window, she hoped that her son was long ago 
in bed and sleeping off his pain. “ I shall be better 
in the morning,” she had said to herself over and 
over again during these same weeks of pain. 

And so her thoughts turned and twisted, formed 
into little vignettes of illusion and dissolved again, 
uttered themselves in little audible sentences and 
were silent again; and through them all moved Val 
— Val looking at her; Val asleep, as a little child, in 
the old night nursery, twenty years ago ; as she had 
seen him when she had stolen up after dinner in her 
jewels; Val’s voice speaking words she forgot again 
as soon as she heard them; and lastly, once VaFs 
face, very close to her own, enigmatic and terrible 
and grey, with burning eyes and colourless lips. . . . 

This woke her in earnest. . . . And she 

heard three o’clock strike. 

But by half-past three she was asleep and happy. 

(v) 

Benty, too, had had rather an uncomfortable 
evening. 


398 


THE COWARD 


First, there had been a remark or two at sup- 
per from Masterman to the effect that Mr. Val 
looked melancholy-like. But Benty’s severity of 
aspect, and of a single sentence that she uttered, 
had been such that Val had been discussed no more. 

Immediately after supper she had gone straight 
upstairs to her own room, and after two or three 
minutes’ listening at the baize door, had stolen 
through and into the boy’s bedroom. She had no 
idea what it was that made her uneasy, yet the fact 
was undeniable that all day there had rested on her a 
certain weight which, very prudently, up to now she 
had attributed to a touch of indigestion. By now, 
however, indigestion or not, the mood had deepened 
to positive apprehensiveness, and yet she had not an 
idea as to what it was that she feared. 

The bedroom looked all right. Certainly Charles 
and the housemaid had done their duty with ad- 
mirable promptness. The day clothes and the boots 
were gone, and the bed was ready, with the sheet 
turned down and a light quilt laid over the foot. 
She lifted her old bedroom candlestick this way 
and that — for, as a true Conservative, she never 
used any other light unless she was obliged — and 
peered about. Then she went out, and into the 
sitting-room. 

Now, of course, as a sensible old lady, she did not 
for an instant give any countenance to superstition, 


THE COWARD 


399 


and yet, if she had only formed the psychological 
habit of reflecting upon her own consciousness, she 
would have known that her own uneasiness took the 
absurd form of feeling that there was something 
sinister in the atmosphere of these two rooms, and, 
indeed, to some extent, in the whole house. She 
went so far practically as to lift her candlestick 
again in every direction and to peer into the dusky 
corners. Then she went to the writing-table, but 
all that lay there that was in the least unusual was 
a little pile of paper laid on one side ready to the 
hand. But there was nothing written on it. 

She felt guilty, somehow, with all this poking and 
peering. . . . Then she heard a step some- 

where in the house, and fled out briskly, down the 
passage, and was standing, holding her breath, 
on the other side of the baize door, to hear her 
boy go down into his room, and shut the door. 

Ten minutes later she came out again. 

In the meantime she had gone to her room and 
had busied herself with ordinary familiar affairs, 
putting away her mending and her work-box, and 
seeing that the windows were properly secured 
against the rain and wind. Then suddenly she had 
taken up her candle once more and stolen out. 

It took her a full minute to make up her mind to 
the very ordinary act that she proposed to perform : 
it was only to look in on her boy to see if he had 


400 


THE COWARD 


everything he wanted and to wish him good night. 
She did this almost two nights out of three if he 
came up early enough, yet it seemed to her to-night 
to be an unusual effort. . . . Then she com- 

pressed her lips resolutely, went up to the door, and 
tapped. 

There was a pause before he answered, and it 
seemed to her old ears as if there were a rustle of 
paper. Then he called out, and she tried the door. 
It was locked ; she waited. Then he opened it and 
confronted her, and as he saw who it was, the 
rigidity of his face softened. 

“ Why! Benty. . . ” 

“ I came to wish you good night,” she said. 

“ Come in a minute, but it must only be a minute.” 

Benty was no detective beyond the point to which 
unreasoning love could bring her, but it was obvious 
that Master Val had been writing. The chair was 
half wheeled round, and a pen laid on the blotting- 
paper began to roll down the slope as she looked. 

“ Now don’t sit up late at your writing, Master 
Val. Go to bed like a good boy.” 

He said nothing. He stood regarding her, with 
his shoulders against the mantelpiece. She peered 
about, uncomfortable under his long look. 

“ Go to bed, Master Val, won’t you? ” she said. 

He put his hands suddenly on her shoulders. 


THE COWARD 


401 


“ Old Benty j ” he said. “ Give me a kiss, my 
dear, and then go to bed like a good little girl.” 

His voice trembled a little. Then he kissed her 
slowly and deliberately on either cheek. 

" My dearest boy! ” she murmured. 

“ Say ‘ God bless you,’ as you used to, Benty.” 

“ God bless you,” she said, frightened at his 
burning eyes and pale face. 

At the door she turned and nodded again. 

“ There,” she said. “ Now have a good sleep.” 

And she went to her room, still uneasy, telling 
herself he would be better in the morning. Ten 
minutes later he heard her ladyship’s stick on the 
boards. 


CHAPTER VI 


(i) 

TXyTHEN Val had peeped out to see whether his 
^ * mother was listening, he had locked the 
door and gone back again to the writing-table. 

Then he opened the blotting-book, slipped out 
three or four sheets, and sat back to read them over. 
He must not lose the run of the sentences. Then 
he leant forward again; and for nearly an hour 
wrote steadily, with many pauses, again leaning 
back from time to time to consider what phrases 
to use. 

A little before twelve he finished. He folded the 
sheets, placed them in five envelopes, already di- 
rected, sealed them carefully, and then went and 
propped them in a row on the mantelpiece, just 
below Austin’s paper of “ Pop ” rules, framed in 
light blue ribbon. 

Then he sat down on the couch opposite, and 
looked at them a long time without moving. 

Half an hour later he got up and went to the 
corner cupboard, and lifted out from it a big card- 
402 


THE COWARD 


403 


board box full of old letters; and for the next hour, 
sitting on the floor, he went through these, reading 
some, tearing up some, laying some in a little pile 
to be replaced. Then he carefully tied up with tape 
those he meant to be kept, and emptied the waste- 
paper basket full of fragments into the fire-place. 
Then he set a light to these and watched them 
burn. . . . 

About two o’clock he got up again out of the 
long chair where he had been lying with his eyes 
closed, and stood a moment or two on the hearth- 
rug. There was a long, low looking-glass below the 
“ Pop ” rules; he caught a glimpse of his collar and 
white shirt front in this; and he leant forward, his 
hands on the shelf, and for a minute or two stared 
steadily into his own reflected face. He saw there 
his eyes, unnaturally bright, rimmed with dark 
lashes, his compressed lips, the pallor of his skin. 
He was in a state of intense interior excitement by 
now, as the time he had fixed was very near; and 
he began to wonder, as people will in such moments, 
as to his own identity. . . . When he was 

quite a child, he remembered, he had been tormented 
by such thoughts. “ It is I who am thinking,” he 
had reflected, in childish wordless images, “ but I 
think that I am thinking. Therefore the ‘ I ’ is be- 
hind my thinking. But I think that I think that 


404 


THE COWARD 


I am thinking. Therefore the ‘ I ’ is behind the 
thinking that I am thinking.” . . . And so the 
“ I ” receded indefinitely, behind ring after ring, 
after consciousness. . . . Then what is the 

“ I ”? Is there anything behind all this? Is there 
more than a series of husks of consciousness? Is 
there any kernel at all? . . . So he pondered 
now, intent and maddened by his own intentness. 
Whatever “ I ” is, it is beneath the face whose re- 
flection he stared at, beneath the convolutions of the 
brain, beneath the processes of the brain, beneath the 
pure thought that emerges from such processes, be- 
neath even the infinite series of the consciousnesses 
of self. Or is there nothing behind all these? Is 
self merely the coincidence and sum of the 
whole ? . . . 

Then he tore himself away suddenly, as the in- 
tricate thought whirled in his brain with an almost 
physical vertigo, and leaned with his back to the 
glass, looking out over the familiar lighted room, 
perceiving that it was simultaneously more familiar 
and near than ever, and more infinitely apart and 
remote. It was the nearest expression of himself 
that he had ever made — of himself mingled with 
Austin. Right up from the little box of broken, 
dusty butterflies which he had collected before he 
went to school at all, to the new rook-rifle he had 
bought last Christmas — all resembled the case of 


THE COWARD 


405 


a caddis-worm, sticks and pebbles gathered in a day 
of life. And now he was going to split the case and 
climb up through the dim and mysterious atmos- 
phere to another state of existence — if, that is, 
there would be anything that could climb when the 
half-assimilated particles were dissolved. . . . 

The rain spattered suddenly against the shuttered 
windows, driving his thoughts instinctively to the 
safety and shelter he enjoyed here — the protected 
sleeping house, all at peace in bed, his parents, 
May, the servants; and out there the stables, the 
horses, the coachman’s house, the grooms’ lodgings. 
For an instant he looked down on it all, with the 
roof off, and in each little closed compartment lay 
a little body coiled up asleep. And his eyes sud- 
denly filled with tears of self-pity. He was to leave 
all this — all the people who did not understand 
him, who had snubbed him and repudiated him. 

. . . He was going to show them whether, after 

all, he was such a coward as they thought; when 
the morning came, and all the little people awoke 
and came running in here, they would know whether 
he had been a coward or not. They would find 
his little caddis-case lying here; and they would 
find his last words too, his forgiveness of them all, 
his serenity, his sorrow — all written out and fas- 
tened up carefully in those envelopes behind him 
— the envelopes addressed to his mother, to Austin, 


406 


THE COWARD 


to May, to Benty, and to Gertie, but none to his 
father! . . . They would know in the village 
too, where they had discussed him and laughed at 
him; that new keeper would know, the one who 
gossiped about him, and was so respectful to him in 
his presence. . . . And Benty? What would 

Benty say and do ? 

Then the clock struck the half-hour, and he 
started upright. It was time. It must all be over 
by three o’clock. That was the time he had fixed. 
He went straight out of the room and passed into 
his bedroom. 


(n) 

In the corner of his bedroom nearest his bed was 
a little badly carved oak cupboard. He unlocked 
this with a key on his watch-chain and took out a 
cash-box. Then again he unlocked this (his hands 
had suddenly begun to shake, so that the compart- 
ments clattered as he handled it), and opened one 
little lid. Then out of this he drew first a phial and 
then a small graduated medicine-glass. 

He had bought both these this morning at East 
Grinstead. He had had a little trouble with the 
poison, and had been obliged to explain elaborately 
that his father wanted it for killing a horse. Gen- 
eral Medd had sent him in on purpose, in order that 
there might be no difficulty ; it was for an old horse, 


THE COWARD 


407 


which they did not want to shoot in the usual way. 
It was quite a good lie; it ensured that the dose 
would be certainly fatal, and it had seemed so un- 
usual as to be quite convincing. The chemist had 
let him have it then — arsenic or prussic acid, or 
something — he had forgotten — after making him 
sign his name in the book. And the graduated 
medicine-glass he had bought with a vague feeling 
that he would like all. his instruments to be new and 
unsullied and his own ; he shrank a little from using 
a glass belonging to the house. . . . 

Of course other methods had occurred to him. 
He had contemplated jumping off the top of the 
house, or shooting himself with his new rook-rifle; 
but he had feared the noise and the uncertainty of 
the second, and his own nerve in the first. Poison 
was much better; surely no one, he had thought, 
so desperate as himself, could shrink from a little 
medicine-glass filled with colourless liquid. 

With these in his hands then, he went back again 
on tiptoe into his sitting-room; again he locked the 
door; then he sat down on the sofa and contem- 
plated the little dark blue phial with the staring label 
and the innocent little glass beside it. He thought 
the phial looked disagreeable; he would pour out 
the draught at once and put the bottle away. He 
had nearly half an hour yet, before all would be 


408 


THE COWARD 


over. So he did this — the liquid did not come as 
far up the glass as he had expected, and he put the 
bottle behind one of his envelopes on the mantel- 
piece, where he could no longer see it. Then he sat 
down again, staring at the glass. . . . 

He started all over as the stable clock struck the 
quarter. For an instant he thought that it must be 
three, and simultaneously the idea crossed his mind 
that if it was three it was too late; he would have 
broken his resolution, and would no longer be 
obliged to keep it. But the six strokes sounded and 
were silent: his honour was still safe. 

Then he suddenly reflected that there was no great 
hurry. The chemist had told him that the poison 
killed practically instantaneously as well as pain- 
lessly. He could have a good twelve or thirteen 
minutes yet. Yes, he would wait thirteen — no, 
fourteen minutes. . . . He took off his watch 

and chain and laid it on the table by the glass. 
. . . Fourteen minutes. It was no good staring 

at the glass. He would lean back and close his 
eyes. . . . 

Then began once more the conflict which he 
thought he had wholly finished with last night by 
the beehives, when Gertie and Austin had inter- 
rupted him. He had gone through it all then — had 


THE COWARD 


409 


faced the two sides — life with its intolerable shame 
and death with its uncertainties. And he had just 
chosen death — coolly and consciously — when he 
had heard the voices, and started up just in time to 
escape being seen. He had known exactly what he 
was doing, and he had clenched the decision by a 
solemn resolution made, oddly enough, on his knees 
by his bedside. Since that time up to the present 
moment he had never wavered : the excitement of 
the plot, the going to East Grinstead, the explana- 
tions to the chemist, the careful and subtle buying 
of some rook-rifle targets in case he were questioned 
as to what he had bought, the keen sense of drama 
as he had seen himself sitting down to lunch for the 
last time, to tea, to dinner, his fierce outburst to his 
mother, his last good night to her, his deliberate 
avoidance of a good night to his father; and then, 
above all, the intense shuddering pleasure of the 
composition of his letters — his tender forgiveness 
of Gertie and the confession to her of his own weak- 
ness, his proud and manly farewell to Austin, his 
letter to his mother telling her that her sympathy 
had all but weakened him in his resolution, his little 
note to May, cheerful and resigned, his careful di- 
rections about his funeral — no flowers and no re- 
ligious service unless it were very strongly wished 
by his mother — the doing of all these things had 
been so absorbingly exciting and inspiring that, 


4io 


THE COWARD 


with the exception of one or two bad moments, he 
had simply not been aware that there was any in- 
stinctive clinging to life at all. He seriously be- 
lieved that the thing was settled. 

And now it came back like a thunderstorm; and 
the figure round which it centred was Benty — 
Benty in her room over the fire; Benty hearing the 
news next morning; Benty as she had stood at 
the door just now after wishing him good night. 

Up to three minutes ago he had really been un- 
aware that it would. He had enjoyed keenly, 
though he did not know it, the contemplating of him- 
self awake in the sleeping house, bent on his des- 
perate act; he had enjoyed, though he did not know 
it, the formal and judicial deliberation by which 
he had proceeded to his bedroom and unlocked the 
instruments of his death, the slow pouring out of 
the poison and the setting of it before him on the 
table. . . . But now that all was done, now 

that no act remained except that to which all his 
other acts led up, without which they would all be 
silly and theatrical mockeries, the intoxication of 
drama and action was gone, and he faced the 
facts. . . . 

If he kept his resolution he would be dead in ten 
minutes — dead. . . . Medhurst would have 

reeled off from him and vanished for ever — Med- 
hurst, Cambridge, his horse, his family, this room 


THE COWARD 


411 

— every one of those things by which he assured 
himself of his own identity and in which he ex- 
pressed it ; his own heart which he could hear drum- 
ming in his ears, his wet hands that now were 
knitted tightly one about the other, the pulses in his 
body — all those things by which he knew self — 
these would be gone; and he ? . . . 

And, on the other side, he could just go to bed 
and pour this silly stuff out of the window, take off 
his clothes as usual and put on his pyjamas and go 
to bed, and awake to-morrow with Charles in the 
room and the morning light on the floor . . . 

and begin again. 

And no one woidd ever know. 

But he would have broken his resolution ! — that 
resolution he had made so deliberately, that resolu- 
tion by which he had demonstrated to himself so 
forcibly that all the world was wrong about his 
cowardice and he right. 

But no one would ever know. 

Besides, had he not already proved that he was no 
coward ? What coward would have done all this — 
bought the poison, faced death for over twenty- 
four hours unflinching, made his last dispositions so 
tranquilly and sincerely? Surely he had conquered 
interiorly, and that was all that mattered ! He had 
meant to die, had done all things necessary for 
death. He had proved himself to himself! And 


412 


THE COWARD 


if he was no coward interiorly and really, what 
would it matter what the world thought? Would 
it not be braver? . . . And Benty! . . . 

Was it kind to Benty? Would it not be far finer 
to live? . . . 

He sat up as this brilliant light broke on him. For 
a moment or two he saw himself as magnificent and 
transfigured — a heart of steel and fire within, yet 
misunderstood and misrepresented without; a man 
desperately courageous in all that mattered, of whom 
the world was not worthy ... a soul of in- 
finite tenderness as well as of courage. 

Then down on him again came a sense that he was 
more of a sham than ever — a braggart, a liar, who 
posed splendidly when there was no danger, who 
failed miserably always when the point came. He 
had swaggered about his boxing at Eton, and had 
refused a fight; he had talked big about his riding, 
and had funked Quentin ; he had swung his ice-axe 
and rehearsed his dramas of Switzerland, and had 
cried out like a woman at the bad place; he had 
galloped after Gertie and saved her, but had meant 
to draw off if the edge of the quarry came too near; 
he had slapped a blackguard’s face on the Pincian, 
and had let Austin go to the duel in his place. And 
now he had written his letters and poured out his 
poison . . . and . . . and was not going 

to drink it. . . . 


THE COWARD 


4i3 

Then the clock began to chime the four quarters 
of three. 

He started up from the sofa where he had lain 
writhing and seized the glass. . . . His brain 

and heart whirled together in inextricable confusion; 
his visions of himself came and went like flashing 
light and darkness on a wall. It was three o’clock, 
and he must do something. It would be too late 
in a minute. Three o’clock was the time appointed 
by Destiny and himself. 

He ran to the door and unlocked it, sobbing gently 
to himself ; ran out, still carrying the glass carefully, 
into his bedroom. . . . He must be quick, or he 

might drink it . . . it had not yet finished 

striking three. The window was open, according 
to orders, and the blind hung over it; he tore this 
aside with his left hand, carefully, lest he should 
spill what he carried in his right, and then he flung 
the contents of the glass far out into the shrub- 
bery. 

He drew back, still shaking all over; consumed 
with shame, yet desperately intent; plunged the 
glass again and again into his water- jug, dried it, 
and set it among some bottles on a shelf above the 
washhand-stand. Then back through the open 
doors he ran, snatched the letters from the mantel- 
piece, tore them into fragments, still sobbing, and 
flung the pieces among the ashes in the grate — 


414 


THE COWARD 


those letters which he had taken two hours to write 
last evening. 

And then, with a sudden wail, he ran back into his 
bedroom, leaving the lights burning, tore off his 
clothes, and crept naked into bed; blew out the 
candle, and crouched down under the clothes, sob- 
bing and moaning aloud. 

He was only a boy still. 


CHAPTER VII 


(i) 

r | 'O be perfectly frank, Father Maple had fallen 
asleep over his office in the garden. There 
was every possible excuse : it was a really hot after- 
noon; his housekeeper, who was a woman deeply 
Conservative in all matters except Home Rule, had 
insisted on giving him hot mutton for lunch, 
followed by sago pudding, in spite of his remon- 
strances; the flies were so troublesome that he put 
his handkerchief over the top of his head, and it 
had slipped forward so as to shade his eyes; and 
the pages of his book insisted on turning green 
by way of balancing the glow of the afternoon sun. 
So, on finishing the second nocturn, he had thought 
that he would attend better to the third if he closed 
his eyes for three minutes to rest them, with the 
result that when the clock from the Norman tower 
over the way struck four, it failed to disturb him. 

It was a pleasant, rectangular, old-fashioned 
garden in which he sat, with his head bowed on his 
breast. It was surrounded by a high old brick wall, 
mellow with age, and covered on its east and west 
415 


416 


THE COWARD 


walls with trained fruit trees; the south wall was 
occupied by the Queen Anne house, with the chapel 
projecting; and the north by a properly built brick 
summer-house with a tiled roof, with a shrubbery 
on either side. The garden itself was just one lawn 
split into four by paved paths, with a sundial in the 
middle, and skirted by long and deep herbaceous 
beds; and the priest had erected a trellis on the top 
of the wall that divided his own garden from the 
next in such a manner that he could not be over- 
looked even by the upper windows. It was a formal 
but friendly place, exactly appropriate to the formal 
and friendly house that it served. 

It was very quiet here this afternoon. Outside 
lay the long, hot street, silent and empty. Even 
cyclists were absent, and there were no brake- 
parties come over to see Medhurst, as to-day was 
Thursday, and Tuesdays and Fridays were the only 
opportunities when the family was at home. A dog 
or two lay asleep in the shadows, no doubt, sitting 
up now and again to snap at flies; the farm-yard 
opposite the “ Medd Arms ” was empty ; the church- 
yard was as empty as a churchyard ever can be. 
And it is probable that in perhaps thirty or forty 
bedrooms all along this street there slumbered per- 
sons who on cooler days would have been talking 
or bustling and disturbing the world generally. The 
hot weather had come back indeed, and was doing 


THE COWARD 


417 


its work. And, what is very touching indeed if one 
reflects upon it (though quite irrelevant to this 
story), the clergyman was as soundly asleep in the 
vicarage garden as the priest in the presbytery’s. 

Almost immediately after the clock had struck 
four Bridget’s figure appeared in the study window. 
She peeped out under her hand, and immediately 
disappeared. Simultaneously with her appearance 
the priest opened his eyes, without otherwise mov- 
ing, and saw her; and since he knew her ways, 
called out, before she had time to take any further 
steps : 

“ Is that anyone for me, Bridget ? ” 

Bridget reappeared again. 

“ Sure I was just telling the gentleman that I 
mustn’t disturb your Reverence.” 

The priest got up, put his handkerchief in his 
pocket, and went towards the house as Val came 
out, carrying his white hat in his hand. 

“Tea, Bridget,” said the priest; and then: 
“ This is excellent. You’re just in time for tea.” 

He observed Val while they had tea, though he 
scarcely looked at him; and perceived that there 
was some very particular emotion hidden a long 
way out of sight, which, if he himself were at all 
abrupt or careless, might never come to light. He 
had hoped he would come some time ago ; but three 


418 


THE COWARD 


or four weeks had passed since the dinner at which 
he had met him, and the boy had not come. He 
conjectured then that something had happened since 
then, that was the cause of this visit. 

The priest had a great theory about the sequence 
of events. He held that things happened or did not 
happen — things, that is, in which free-will in- 
tegrally came in — according to the movements of a 
kind of under-world in which free-will played a very 
large part. (Prayer, of course, is one manifestation 
of all this.) For instance, it had become plain to 
him that he himself must make a big attempt to get 
at the boy whose mother had been so confidential, 
and that he must get him to come spontaneously: 
it would not be of the smallest use to ask him out- 
right. So he had set to work on the night of the 
dinner to communicate with the boy without the 
boy’s knowing it ; and so certain was he that he had 
succeeded, that he was really astonished that the 
effect had not followed sooner. However, it 
seemed to have worked at last; for here was the 
boy. And the fact that he held such a theory, and 
habitually acted on it, made him quite extraor- 
dinarily confident and self-possessed, now that it 
had been justified once more. . . . He gath- 

ered, however, from the abruptness with which the 
boy had turned up, that something rather important 
had happened to precipitate the process. (I do 


THE COWARD 


419 

not know whether all this is in the least intelligible. 
At any rate, it was what the man held.) 

The priest talked of odds and ends for some time, 
while he handed tea and made suggestions as to 
various kinds of food. He felt that he must first 
establish a sense of ordinariness and normality in 
the boy’s mind ; and meantime he watched interiorly, 
with extreme care, the gradual settling down of the 
other’s agitation. Val soon began to answer easily ; 
to sit less on the edge of his chair; and even to be- 
gin little new subjects. 

“ I say, that’s a splendid piano you’ve got,” he 
said. 

The priest spoke of his piano; pointed out one 
or two ordinary devices for increasing resonance; 
explained that he had as few hangings and carpets 
in the room as possible, for the same reason. 

“ What was that thing you began by playing 
when you dined with us? ” said Val. “ I’ve never 
forgotten it.” 

“ That was what’s called extemporisation,” said 
the priest. “ You take a theme ” 

“ Do you mean that you made it up as you went 
along?” asked Val, amazed. 

“ Oh, it’s not so impossible as it sounds. You 
take a theme first — an idea that’s to say, expressed 
in sounds instead of words — an idea that’s in- 


420 


THE COWARD 


teresting, you know, and that’s capable of develop- 
ment — like . . . like a paradox ; and then you 

comment on it, and expand it, and draw it out, and 
turn it upside down, and alter it — yet it’s all the 
same main idea. Then you contradict it flatly and 
argue it out . . . and finally you make it win, 

when you’ve explained it.” 

He broke off, smiling, seeing the boy’s consterna- 
tion. But he had seen, too, that he was not entirely 
unintelligible. 

“ Does that sound quite mad ? ” he asked. 

Val smiled too, rather painfully. 

“ No . . he said. “ But it seems to me 

extraordinary that anyone can do it — straight off.” 

The priest checked himself on the verge of an- 
other sentence. He saw that the boy had led up to 
the taking-off edge. . . . But the moment 

passed. Val struggled with himself an instant, and 
drew back. . . . 

“ Shall we go out into the garden? I know you’d 
like to smoke. It’s very good of you to come and 
see me at all.” 

So once more, in the garden, the priest soothed 
and reassured this boy who was shying, like a colt, 
at every opportunity. It was a laborious business. 
The priest knew perfectly well that the other had 
come down on purpose to make a confidence; and 


THE COWARD 


421 


yet that it was quite conceivable that he would go 
away again without doing it. 

And then at last the moment came. 

Val, who was obviously not attending in the least 
to his host’s description of the Dresden Kur-haus 
and its contents, suddenly interrupted. 

“ Look here,” he said. “ I’ve got to be up at the 
house at six, to go out riding. There’s something I 
want to ask you most awfully : and it’ll take rather a 
long time. . . 


(n); 

It was half an hour before he had finished. 

Again and again the priest had to help him out by 
a question or a comment, to reassure him when he 
grew too bitter, and finally, to sit without moving a 
finger or an eyelid, while Val recounted the last 
scene — that desperate attempt — a sham attempt, 
as he now saw it to be — to kill himself. It was 
very delicate work. A phrase too much, or a dis- 
dainful movement, or a touch of sentimentality 
would have upset the balance — the very delicate 
balance of a soul spinning free at last from com- 
plications, on a single line. . . . He had to let 

his soul come out clear into the open and see facts 
as they were. And then, then it might be possible 
to deal with it. 


422 


THE COWARD 


. . . “ That’s what I’ve come about then,” 

ended the boy, pale and excited. “ I didn’t know 
who else to come to. ... I felt I must come 
to someone who didn’t know me. I could tell him 
the truth, then. . . . And this is the truth. 

I’m simply a coward. It was when you were play- 
ing that I first felt I could come to you — I don’t 
know why. And there it is ! I’m a coward. And 
I want to know what I’m to do. I hate myself 
every time; and I tell lies to myself. And I want 
to know, once and for all, whether I can do any- 
thing in the world to cure myself. It’s no good 
telling me to do a big thing: I probably shouldn’t 
do it. . . . And I want to know what to do.” 

The priest moved a little in his chair. He had 
been listening for the last five minutes without a 
word or movement. 

“ Look here,” he said quietly. (“Take another 
cigarette. ) . . . I take it you’ve come to me, as 

to a doctor? Well, I’m going to answer you like a 
doctor. Is that what you want? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You want to hear the truth ? However unpleas- 
ant? Remember, I shouldn’t tell you the truth 
unless” — (he leaned forward a little) — “unless 
I was perfectly certain there was a cure.” 

“ Yes, the truth.” 


THE COWARD 


423 


“ Very well, then. Now listen. 

“ First, however, I want to say that you’ve done a 
brave thing in coming. . . . No; don’t inter- 

rupt me. It is brave. It would have been much 
easier for you not to have come ; to have gone on 
— er — lying to yourself. Particularly as there 
was no earthly reason why you should have come 
to me — to me, of all people. You would have 
easily salved your conscience by going to your 
mother ” 

The boy started. 

“ How did you know that?” he asked breath- 
lessly. 

“ My dear boy, it’s exactly what a real coward 
would have done. . . . No doubt you thought 

of it; but then, you see, you didn’t do it. You came 
to me. Now listen, please, carefully.” 

The priest sat back in his chair, hesitated a mo- 
ment to gather his words, and began. 

“ The first point is. Are you a coward really ? 
To that I say, Yes and No. It depends entirely 
upon what you mean by the word. If it is to be 
a coward to have a highly strung nervous system 
and an imagination, and further, in moments of 
danger to be overwhelmed by this imagination, so 
that you do the weak thing instead of the strong 
thing against your real will, so to speak, then — 
Yes. But if you mean by the word coward what 


424 


THE COWARD 


I mean by it — a man with a lax will who intends 
to put his own physical safety first, who calculates 
on what will save him pain or death and acts on 
that calculation, then certainly you are not one. 
It’s purely a question of words. Do you see? . . . 

“ Now it seems to me that what is the matter with 
you is the same thing that’s the matter with every 
decent person — only in rather a vivid form. 
You’ve got violent temptations, and you yield to 
them. But you don’t will to yield to them. There’s 
the best part of you fighting all the time. That’s 
entirely a different case from the man who has 
what we Catholics call * malice ’ — the man who 
plans temptations and calculates on them and means 
to yield to them. You’ve got a weak will, let us say, 
a vivid imagination, and a good heart. . . . 

(Don’t interrupt. I’m not whitewashing you. 

. . . I’m going to say some more unpleasant 

things presently.) . . . 

“ Well . . . a really brave man doesn’t al- 

low himself to be dominated by his imagination — 
a really brave man — the kind of man who gets the 
V.C. His will rules him; or, rather, he rules him- 
self through his will. He may be terribly fright- 
ened in his imagination all the while ; and the more 
frightened his imagination is, the braver he is, if he 
dominates it. Mere physical courage — the absence 
of fear — simply is not worth calling bravery. It’s 


THE COWARD 


425 

the bravery of the tiger, not the moral bravery of 
the Man. 

“ And you aren’t a brave man — in that sense. 
Nor are you a coward in the real sense either. 
You’re just ordinary. And what we’ve got to see is 
how you’re to get your will uppermost. 

“ The first thing you’ve got to do is to understand 
yourself — to see that you’ve got those two things 
pulling at you — imagination and will. And the 
second thing you’ve got to do is to try to live by 
your will, and not by your imagination — in quite 
small things I mean. Muscles become strong by 
doing small things — using small dumb-bells — over 
and over again ; not by using huge dumb-bells once 
or twice. And the way the will becomes strong is 
the same — doing small things you’ve made up your 
mind to do, however much you don’t want to do 
them at the time — I mean really small things — 
getting up in the morning, going to bed. . . . 

You simply can’t lift big dumb-bells simply by 
wanting to. And I don’t suppose that it was 
simply within your power to have done those other 
things you’ve told me of. (By the way, we Catho- 
lics believe, you know, that to fight a duel and to 
commit suicide are extremely wrong: they’re what 
we call mortal sins. . . . However, that’s not 

the point now. You didn’t refrain from doing 
them because you thought them wrong, obviously. 


426 


THE COWARD 


We’re talking about courage — the courage you 
hadn’t got.) 

“ Now this sounds rather dreary advice, I expect. 
But you know we can’t change the whole of our 
character all at once. To say that by willing it we 
can become strong, or ... or good, all in a 
moment, is simply not true. It’s as untrue as what 
you tell me that Professor said — that we can’t 
change at all. That’s a black lie, by the way. It’s 
the kind of thing these modern people say: it saves 
them a lot of trouble, you see. We can change, 
slowly and steadily, if we set our will to it.” 

He paused. Val was sitting perfectly still now, 
listening. Two or three times during the priest’s 
little speech he had moved as if to interrupt; but 
the other had stopped him by a word or gesture. 
And the boy sat still, his white hat in his hands. 

“Well, that’s my diagnosis,” said the priest, 
smiling. “ And that’s my advice. Begin to exer- 
cise your will. Make a rule of life (as we Catholics 
say) by which you live — a rule about how you 
spend the day. And keep it; and go on keeping it. 
Don’t dwell on what you would do if such and such 
a thing happened. As to whether you’d be brave or 
not. That’s simply fatal; because it’s encouraging 
and exciting the imagination. On the contrary, 
starve the imagination and feed the will. It’s for 
the want of that that in these days of nervous sys- 


THE COWARD 


427 

terns and rush and excitement that so many people 
break down. . . .” 

“And . . . and about religion ?” asked Val 

shyly. 

The priest waved his hands. 

“ Well,” he said, “ you know what my religion is. 
At least, you almost certainly don’t. And, nat- 
urally, I’m quite convinced that mine is true. But 
that’s not to the point now. If you really want to 
know, you can come and talk some other time. 
With regard to religion, I would only say to you 
now, Practise your own : do, in the way of prayers 
and so on, all that you conscientiously can. . . . 

Yes, make a rule about that too, and stick to it. 
Make it a part of your rule, in fact. If you decide 
to say your prayers every day, say them, what- 
ever you feel like. Don’t drop them suddenly one 
morning just because you don’t feel religions. 
That’s fatal. It’s letting your imagination domi- 
nate your will. And that’s exactly what you want 
to avoid.” 

Val stood up briskly. 

“ I must be going,” he said. “ The quarter’s just 
going to strike. Thanks most awfully.” 

The priest stood up too. 

“ Not at all,” he said. “ It’s my job, you know.” 
Val still stood looking at him. What amazed the 


428 


THE COWARD 


boy most was the naturalness and the absence of 
emotionalism of the whole thing. He had come 
down here facing, as he thought, a crisis. And to 
this quiet, small, grey-haired man it did not appear 
that it seemed a crisis at all ; it was part of the day’s 
work. Val wondered why on earth he hadn’t been 
before — why he hadn’t known that there were 
such people in the world. . . . Were all Ro- 
man Catholics priests like this? . . . 

“ Well, thanks again,” he said. “ By the 


“ Yes?” 

“ Do you think I shall have a chance — when I’m 
stronger, I mean — to ... to show ? ” 

“ I’m quite sure you will,” said the priest. “ It 
may not be a very sensational chance, and perhaps 
no one will know. But you’ll have one, don’t be 
afraid.” He paused. “ Almighty God doesn’t 
really waste His material, you know.” 

When the priest was alone he sat down again for 
a minute or two and remained without moving. 

Then he spoke aloud softly — a bad habit he had 
contracted through living alone. 

“ And to think,” he said excitedly, “ that that boy 
doesn’t know anything about Absolution! . . . 

What a ... a damnable shame it all is ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


(i) 

TN life, as in rivers, there occur occasionally long 
flat reaches where nothing particular happens. 
The water moves, the sun shines, but there is noth- 
ing much by which to mark either. And it seemed to 
Lady Beatrice, as she sat one morning in her room, 
that she had lately been drifting down such a period. 
First, they had not been up to town this spring; 
and even Medhurst, if lived in continually for eigh- 
teen months, becomes almost ordinary. For her 
husband was distinctly growing older : he slept more 
after dinner; he was more unwilling to go away; 
and the effect had been that except for ten days 
in August, when they had gone to Scotland with 
the boys and May, to a rather dreary house, they 
had done literally nothing except mind their own 
business at home. 

Interiorly too nothing much had happened. 
There had been the shock of Val’s behaviour in 
Rome at Easter, and there had been a very un- 
pleasant little scene with him one evening after he 
had come back from Cambridge for the long vaca- 
429 


430 


THE COWARD 


tion. She remembered even now how badly she had 
slept after it. In the morning, however, things had 
been all right again; Val too had looked as if he 
hadn’t slept much. But nothing whatever had 
happened, and she had soon lost that feeling of 
anxiety of which the affair of that disagreeable 
evening had been a climax. She remembered hav- 
ing recommended Val to go and talk to Father 
Maple, but was rather relieved now that he had not 
taken her advice. One never knew what complica- 
tions might not arise if Roman Catholic priests 
became too intimate. Certainly she liked Father 
Maple; he had been up to dine again two or three 
times during the summer; but there had been no 
further talk between them on the subject of her son. 
Besides, Father Maple had been quite wrong in his 
hints that the arrangement which they had all come 
to with regard to the Rome affair was hard on Val. 
On the contrary, it had been admirably successful. 
No one ever mentioned it; and what a relief that 
was! Such things were best ignored and, if pos- 
sible, forgotten. 

Well, it was now October, and the flat reach was 
ending; at least, it was, at any rate, about to turn a 
gentle corner. On the eighth she, her husband and 
May were to go to Debenham for a week (where her 
eldest brother now reigned) for the shooting, leav- 


THE COWARD 


43i 


ing Val alone at home. But Val himself was to go 
to Cambridge on the tenth, and he was already 
shooting here every day, so she needn’t trouble about 
the boy. On the whole, she was pleased with Val 
just now: he was receding, that is to say, in her 
mind from that plane on which she had been anxious 
about him. Certainly he was very quiet ; but young 
men were quiet sometimes ; and he certainly was no 
trouble. There had been no more such painful 
scenes between him and his father, as (she had been 
given to understand) had taken place over two dogs 
that were fighting in the village. He was quiet ; he 
had none of his friends to stay with him; he 
did not talk much in public, but the air of sulking 
had quite disappeared now. ... He was be- 
coming more like Austin, she thought. 

So she pondered, sitting back in her chair, after 
she had finished interviewing the housekeeper and 
writing her three or four letters. And then there 
was a tap, and her husband came in. 

“ About the keys,” he said without introduction. 
“ Masterman had better keep them, I suppose.” 

She knew him well in this mood. It soon passed ; 
but it was a little trying while it lasted; for it mani- 
fested itself in a strenuous sense of responsibility 
and in what a less tactful wife would have called 
“ fussing ” to his face. She knew what he meant. 


43 2 


THE COWARD 


He was referring to the fact that they were going 
away the day after to-morrow, and that certain 
precious and almost symbolical keys had to be 
placed in safe keeping. They were the keys of such 
things as the small plate-safe — the safe, that is, 
where were preserved certain pieces of silver con- 
nected vaguely with Charles II and the First 
Pretender — the glass case in the library, where 
were such things as a pair of buckles worn by 
George II, a fan of Queen Anne’s, a pair of stock- 
ings reputed to have been worn by Elizabeth, to- 
gether with a number of miniatures, enamelled keys, 
snuff-boxes and silver coins ; and, lastly and chiefly, 
the “ muniment-room,” in the south wing on the 
first floor. It was in this muniment-room that the 
almost priceless papers of the estate were kept, 
together with the relics referred to in the first 
chapter of this book — relics which even now must 
not be named for fear of incredulity. . . . 

“ Yes, dear, I suppose so,” she said. “ Doesn’t 
he generally have them when we’re away? ” 

“ My dear, you forget,” fussed the General, with 
an air of solemnity. “ These keys are always kept 
by a member of the family if anyone is here.” He 
eyed her reproachfully. 

She remembered then. It was a detail of the 
tremendous Medd etiquette, more rigid than that 
of any Royalty, that prevailed here wherever the 


THE COWARD 


433 

“ Family ” was concerned. She felt a little ashamed 
of her remissness. 

“ Val will be here till the tenth,” she said, “ and I 
think Austin comes down in the morning to shoot, 
doesn’t he ? ” 

“You think then I can safely leave them with 
Val? ” he asked, as one deciding eternal issues. 

“ I think the poor boy would be rather hurt if you 
didn’t,” she said. “ That is, if he remembers.” 

“ Very good,” said the General, with the air of 
one who yields generously against his better judg- 
ment, and hurried out of the room again. 

It was only for a moment or two that she allowed 
herself to remain amused. She could see her hus- 
band bustling off in his knickerbockers to reveal to 
Val the responsibility that would rest on him for 
two days ; and then return to his study to complete 
his other arrangements for the day after to-morrow ; 
his interview with Masterman, his anxious turning 
out of drawers. . . . Then the purple glory of 

the Medd pride came down on her once more and 
enveloped her in its rather stifling splendour. 

(n) 

She was wrong, however, in one detail. Her 
husband did not go to Val’s room, but summoned 
him instead in a stately manner, through Master- 
man, downstairs to the library. 


434 


THE COWARD 


It is difficult to describe the exact state of mind of 
this old man towards his younger son, since his 
emotions were so massive and huge as to defy 
analysis. Two vast principles faced one another 
within him — principles before which the merely 
domestic affections and tendernesses crouched like 
ants before a mountain-range — and those two prin- 
ciples were Family Pride and Disgrace. These 
two things stood out dominant; and seven months 
had not yet reconciled them. Val was bone of his 
bone and flesh of his flesh — a Medd, in fact; and 
Val had outraged his birth. However, the General’s 
interior arrangements do not matter much. . . . 

Practically, he treated Val now with a cold courtesy ; 
he never found fault with him (in fact, Val gave him 
no excuse, and his father was, at any rate, objectively 
just) ; and he spoke to him as seldom as he could. 
He respected the Medd, if he could not admire the 
Valentine. He was conscious now that he was 
going to perform an act of great generosity. 

“ About these keys,” he said when the boy came 
in. “ I shall give them into your charge when we 
go away ; and you must hand them to Austin when 
he comes down on the tenth.” 

“ Very well.” 

“Look at them. Here they are, these three.” 
(Pie handed them across the table on either side of 
which the two were standing. ) “ They are labelled ; 


THE COWARD 


435 


so you will know them again — the small plate-chest, 
marked ‘P.C.’; the glass case in the hall, marked 
‘G.C.’; and the muniment-room, marked ‘ M.R.’ 
You understand?” 

“ Yes.” 

The General solemnly moistened his lips. 

“Very well. I keep them here as a rule, you 
see.” (He indicated a drawer in the table.) 
“ Masterman will have the keys of the house, as 
usual. But these three I leave in your charge. 
You understand?” 

“ Yes.” 

The General paused. . . . (Yes, he had 

better say it. Perhaps Val did not quite realise the 
responsibility.) 

“ I am doing this, my boy ; but not every father 
would do it under the circumstances. . . . You 

understand, eh ? ” 

He saw a very faint flush come up on the boy’s 
face. 

“Yes, father; I quite understand. Thank you 
very much.” 

“ Very well. That’s all, my boy.” 

When Val had gone again the General carefully 
put the keys back in their place, on the little hook 
that he had had placed in the drawer for their 
express accommodation, and forgot to lock it up. 
But he felt glad, on the whole, that he had decided 


436 


THE COWARD 


to confer this honour on the boy. Not many 
fathers, he thought, would have done it. . . . 

And then he was not sure whether he had not been 
a little weak ; and he stood staring out at the cedar, 
breathing audibly through his nose, as his manner 
was when in deep thought. 

There was an abundance of things to do always 
when the Family left home for a few days; drawers 
to be locked up, papers to be put away; dispatch- 
boxes, which did not contain anything in particular, 
to be moved from the window-seat to the little cup- 
board behind the sofa. Then there were interviews 
with old Masterman — mysterious conversations 
about certain bins in the cellar ; interviews with Mr. 
Watson, the head coachman, as to the use of the 
horses and their proper exercise; interviews with 
Mr. Kindersley, the head keeper, as to any shooting- 
parties that the boys might be allowed to hold. 

So the General could not stand still and breathe 
through his nose for long; for Austin was coming 
down on the tenth with Tom Meredith and another 
man; and Mr. Kindersley was in waiting to receive 
exact instructions as to which coverts were to be 
shot. It was a pity, thought the General, that they 
couldn’t come down a day or two earlier; then Val 
might have shot with them too. But Austin, it 
seemed, was unable to get away before the day on 


THE COWARD 


437 


which Val left for Cambridge; and, after all, Val 
had had several days already out with the partridges ; 
and a boy still at Cambridge mustn’t expect to have 
everything his own way. 

(m) 

The departure on the morning of the eighth was 
tremendous. 

The Family was going to drive; and the men and 
the maids were to take the luggage and go round 
by train. Debenham was not more than fifteen 
miles by road, and not less than twenty-six by rail, 
exclusive of the drive at either end. Mrs. Bentham 
had gone the night before, as an independent and 
honoured guest, to stay with the Debenham house- 
keeper for her annual visit. 

About nine o’clock, therefore, the wagonette and 
the luggage-cart drew up at the south porch, and 
a tremendous scene of activity began. First, great 
trunks shaped like arks began to appear, inter- 
spersed with mysterious bandbox-shaped pieces of 
luggage, sheaves of umbrellas, two gun-cases, and 
three or four portmanteaux. 

Then, as May saw from her window, Masterman 
appeared, in rigid black as usual, directing with 
waves of the hand two persons in green-baize 
aprons in the placing of those articles in their 
proper positions — first in the luggage-cart, till it 


43 ^ 


THE COWARD 


appeared imminent that the stout brown horse would 
presently be lifted from the ground by his girth and 
suspended in air (May, in a neat travelling cos- 
tume, watched, fascinated), and then in the front 
seat of the wagonette. 

At this point May’s own maid, resembling a thin 
duchess in disguise, hurried into May’s room and 
distracted her by apologies for leaving out a pair of 
gaiters. She seized these and vanished again. 
When May turned to the window once more the 
company had grown : Mr. Simpson, the valet, 
dressed in chocolate-brown, with a black overcoat, 
black hat, and black stick (not altogether unlike a 
stage detective), was holding open the door of the 
wagonette for the ladies to mount; Mrs. Caunt, 
Lady Beatrice’s maid, was in the act’ of ascending; 
and one of the persons in green baize, cowering it 
seemed under Mr. Masterman’s denunciating hand, 
was shifting a trunk from the luggage-cart to the 
already high-piled front seat of the wagonette. 
Then Fergusson herself came out, carrying a flat 
parcel — no doubt the gaiters — modestly shrouded 
in brown paper. . . . 

“ What a business it all seems — (Good morning, 
mother) — What a business it all seems, this going 
away ! ” 

Lady Beatrice kissed her daughter absent-mind- 


THE COWARD 


439 


edly. Something of the solemnity seemed to have 
descended upon her too. 

“ Caunt’s gone,” she said. “ And I can’t find my 
spotted veil. She didn’t leave it here, did she? 
She’s got no head, you know.” 

She cast a roving glance round the disordered 
room and limped out again. 

But the departure of the luggage and the servants 
was a comparatively furtive and ignominious affair, 
considered alongside of the departure of the Family 
itself. 

The first note was struck at breakfast, at which 
the ladies appeared in hats, and the General in a 
grey suit, with spats, carrying an overcoat which he 
had just fetched from the hall, a pair of field-glasses 
with case and strap complete, and a small leather- 
covered box which he called his “ travelling case.” 
It was understood by the world to contain a flask of 
spirits, a horn mug, and a brush and comb. All 
these things had been set out carefully by Mr. 
Simpson on the hall-table, in readiness for the 
journey; but it had seemed fit to the General to 
bring them in to breakfast. 

He shook his grey head severely as he set these 
down on a chair by the door. 

“ Simpson’s losing his head, I fear,” he said. 
“ I found these things on the hall-table.” 


440 


THE COWARD 


“ Perhaps he put them there,” said May auda- 
ciously. 

The General shook his head again as he went to 
the sideboard. 

“ He must have. . . . Miss Deverell, can I 

give you a little of this cold bird? ” 

Three-quarters of an hour later the hoofs of great 
horses could be heard, and the rolling of wheels; 
and May, in her hat and cloak, playing with the 
new Persian kitten in the hall, went to the door to 
look out, just as the carriage wheeled round and 
drew up. 

Already Masterman was on the steps of the ter- 
race, as if by magic (since he had been in the hall, 
it seemed, not two minutes before) consulting with 
Mr. Watson, now enthroned on the box-seat, with 
the two great black horses in front of him, all 
a-shine with gloss and black harness and great 
silver crests, held at the head by a groom. The 
two seemed to be consulting about the weather. 

Then various other persons began to appear. 

James, the first footman, who was to drive with 
them, and, apparently, be company for Mr. Watson 
coming back, since there was nothing else in the 
world for him to do at either end of the fifteen miles, 
hurried through the hall to the library and back 
again twice, already in his long blue coat. Obvi- 


THE COWARD 


441 


ously, from the place he went and returned, and went 
and returned, the General must have rung with some 
vehemence. Then round the shrubbery corner by 
the stable appeared two figures — another groom 
and the “ helper ” — mere spectators, however, of 
the Progress, since they stood and eyed afar off. 

Then a housemaid, very much agitated, hurried 
in. 

“ Please, miss, her ladyship can’t find her spotted 
veil.” 

“ Tell her ladyship that there are two of mine in 
the top left-hand drawer of the wardrobe.” 

“ Thank you, miss.” 

Then Miss Deverell appeared like a shadow, as 
the clock from the stables struck the appointed hour. 
She was habited, gloved, veiled, and bonneted with 
extraordinary precision. 

“ My dear, you have not your fur boa on.” 

“ It’s too warm,” said May. “ Besides, it’s 
packed.” 

Miss Deverell winked with both eyes two or three 
times, and sat down on the edge of a chair. 

Then Masterman, who had been comparing his 
watch with the striking of the stable clock, and 
verifying the time by an apparent appeal to Mr. 
Watson, came back to the house, and went in the 
direction of the library with the air of an assured 
and privileged intruder. Evidently he was going 


442 


THE COWARD 


to warn his master that a quarter-past ten had struck. 

Then Val appeared, in his knickerbockers, with his 
hands in his pockets, obviously intending to be 
dutiful. May remembered that he would be gone 
back to Cambridge when she returned. . . . 

(IV) 

May’s feelings towards Val went in moods, like 
layers in a Neapolitan ice. She had been sincerely 
and deeply shocked that a brother of hers could 
have behaved as he had in Rome ; yet, on the other 
side, duels were wicked. Again, she was both a 
Medd and a girl : as a Medd she resented the 
outrage to the family honour; as a girl she was 
extremely fond of her brother, who had bowled to 
her on the lawn so often and taken her birds’-nesting. 
Again, she was as fundamentally unimaginative as 
her mother. Sentiment took the place of imagina- 
tion on the top; and this lack of imagination some- 
times made her feel unduly hard on Val; and 
sometimes obscured the malice of his crime. The 
result of the whole was that she had certainly drifted 
a good way apart from Val during these last months ; 
since a boy is naturally intolerant of capriciousness, 
and May had seemed to Val distinctly capricious. 
There had been moments when he had leapt, so to 
speak, at her in kindly moods; established, as he 


THE COWARD 


443 


thought, an understanding one evening ; and the next 
morning had found her with the blinds drawn down 
over her friendliness and a facade of cold dignity 
presented to him. Besides, he could not altogether 
forget that nightmare of a journey back to England, 
when the two girls had nestled together apart 
and looked at him with something very like repul- 
sion. . . . 

“ You’ll be there by twelve,” said Val, leaning up 
against a sofa, still with his hands in his pockets. 

“ Not if father dawdles much longer, we shan’t,” 
said May ungrammatically. 

Then Masterman hurried by again from the 
library with the same air of agitation as James had 
worn. Evidently, in spite of the preparations 
having been begun two days before, they were not 
yet complete. As he vanished Lady Beatrice rustled 
in, on her stick. 

“ Where’s your father ? ” 

“ I don’t think he’s quite ready,” said May. 
“ James and Masterman seem hunting for some- 
thing.” 

Lady Beatrice rustled out again. 

“ You’ll be gone when we get back again,” 
observed May after a silence, for want of a better 
remark. 

“ Yes,” said Val. 

He wandered to the side-table and began to look 


444 


THE COWARD 


at the Graphic , replacing his hands in his pockets 
as he turned each page. 

It was instructive to see how his hands came out 
and his figure instinctively straightened, as there 
suddenly loomed from the direction of the library 
the form of the General, arrayed as for an exploring 
expedition, and moving rapidly and impressively. 
On his head was his tall grey felt hat, shaped like a 
cake; over his grey suit a darker grey great-coat, 
slung with straps; white spats over his chestnut- 
coloured boots; in his gloved hands on one side a 
little sheaf of sticks and implements, on the other 
his “ travelling case.” He moved rapidly, and there 
went with him a smell of tweeds and an air of 
importance. 

“ Come along, come along,” he cried to his 
daughter. “ We’re ten minutes late.” 

Then began the last whirl of the departure, 
resembling the passing of a tidal wave. 

His wife swept along behind him, coming surpris- 
ingly fast, with a housemaid plucking at her dress 
en route. Masterman reappeared from a totally 
different direction from that in which he had 
vanished. May sprang up and plunged into the 
stream by her mother’s side. James flew through a 
side door, with his long tails clapping behind him; 


THE COWARD 


445 


the faces of two female servants peeped over the 
edge of the music-gallery; and Mrs. Markham, the 
housekeeper, in black silk, was observed to be 
standing with her hands folded together, at the 
head of the staircase, as if about to take part in a 
liturgy. 

The travellers were packed in at last in the great 
landau. Miss Deverell was already there, sitting 
upright in her proper place on the far side. (She 
had disappeared from the hall, presumably, soon 
after her single remark to May; but no one had 
seen her go.) Beside her now sat Lady Beatrice; 
opposite Lady Beatrice, May; and opposite Miss 
Deverell, the General. Masterman shut the door 
and James climbed to his seat. 

“ Good-bye, my boy, good-bye,” cried the General, 
waving a gloved hand to Val, who had drifted out 
behind the surge and was standing now hatless at 
the head of the steps. “ Now we’re ready at last.” 

Lady Beatrice kissed her hand at the boy. (She 
was ashamed that she had forgotten to say good-bye ; 
but the rush had really been too great.) May 
nodded and smiled. 

“ Good-bye, Val.” 

“ All right, Masterman.” 

There was a stir of the carriage. The great black 
horses started a little as Mr. Watson’s whip drew 


446 


THE COWARD 


gently across their flanks, jingled their bits, and 
moved off. The groom and the helper vanished 
behind the shrubbery, as they were not in full dress ; 
female faces appeared at windows. Masterman 
bowed twice, bending at the small of his back. 

And so the Progress began, and the Medd Family 
left its Country Seat. 

Half-way up the hill, when the General had done 
enquiring after his field-glasses, which had slipped 
round to the small of his back, May looked back 
at the house. 

There it lay, in its solemn splendour and beauty, 
indescribably lovely, far more an essential of the 
landscape than the oaks and beeches grouped to 
show it off ; its two wings held out like welcoming 
arms, its twisted chimneys sending up skeins of 
delicate grey against the clear October morning sky, 
its great central block majestic and dominating, 
rising above the broad flagged terrace and the steps ; 
and there by the doorway, surmounted with carving, 
stood a tiny, grey, hatless figure in knickerbockers, 
still looking after them. Masterman had gone ; the 
faces in the windows had disappeared ; the shrubbery 
was deserted. There remained Val for a moment 
or two. 

She looked at her mother. Her mother was 
pulling the rug straight. 


THE COWARD 447 

She looked at Miss Deverell. Miss Deverell 
appeared to be closing her eyes for sleep. 

She looked at her father. Her father was 
straightening the strap of his glasses. 

And as she looked back again at the terrace as the 
carriage topped the hill, she saw the grey knicker- 
bockered figure go back into the house. 


CHAPTER IX 


(i) 

/CHARLES, the second footman, was still young 
enough to appreciate the absence of the family 
from home and the presence of one or both of the 
young gentlemen. 

All kinds of indulgences were silently permitted. 
Shirt-sleeves could be largely worn throughout the 
day ; a neat dark suit was full-dress ; there was very 
little bell-answering to be done, very little waiting 
at meals. To be sure there were certain other 
dreary jobs to be performed: furniture had oc- 
casionally to be moved about, disused silver to be 
polished ; but even these occupations would be inter- 
rupted by surprising and interesting errands ordered 
by the young gentlemen, such as accompanying one 
of them to beat for wood-pigeons in the pine wood, 
or to manage the boat while a little coarse fishing 
was done. There was an air of holiday abroad even 
if the day was as full as ever. 

On both those days, for example, Charles had a 
sight of sport. On the eighth, after lunch, Master 
Val went out after wood-pigeons, and Charles was 
448 


THE COWARD 


449 


stationed for the greater part of the afternoon, with 
permission to smoke, on a charming seat in the 
sunshine at the north end of the pine wood, with no 
responsibilities except to keep himself in full sight 
of the open sky, and to tap occasionally with a stick 
on the trunk of a tree. This acted as a “ stop ” to 
pigeons returning homewards from the beech woods 
and stubbles, and sent them round instead to the 
south end of the wood, a quarter of a mile away, 
whence came gun-bangings from Master Val, 
who was crouched under a little withered shelter. 
Charles had ultimately to carry no less than eight 
dead pigeons home at the close of day, and ate two 
of them himself that night for supper. 

On the ninth he had even greater enjoyments, for 
Master Val informed him, when he came to clear 
away breakfast, that he was to accompany him and 
the under-keeper to certain outlying stubble-fields 
and undergrown copses, in the first of which a few 
partridges might be got, and in the second, rabbits, 
and perhaps a strayed pheasant or two. They did 
get these animals, with some success; returned for 
lunch, as the house was not far off; and went out 
again after lunch for the rest of the afternoon. It 
was true that Mr. Masterman was a little overbear- 
ing and strenuous during the evening that followed, 
but still a day in the open air was a day in the open 


air. 


450 


THE COWARD 


When Charles had brought coffee in to Val, who 
dined, as the custom was at such times, in the 
“ morning-room,” he went upstairs to pack the 
portmanteaux for the journey to Cambridge the next 
day. Then he went downstairs for supper, at 
which he ate half a newly killed rabbit, and within 
an hour was in bed in the men's quarters over the 
south wing. 

Soon after two o’clock he awoke and smelt 
burning, and, as he sat upright in bed, thought he 
heard a voice calling. 


(n) 

At ten minutes to two the same night, Mr John 
Brent, blacksmith’s assistant, was passing the south 
end of the house, about a hundred yards distant, 
carrying parts of a very powerful air-gun concealed 
on his person, a dozen small nets wrapped about his 
body, and a ferret, with muzzle and line complete, in 
his huge breast-pocket. He was walking very care- 
fully over the grass in the shadow of the trees, in 
light tennis-shoes stained black, and was on his way 
to the coverts over the hill. These were at least a 
third of a mile from the house, and nearly half a 
mile from the keeper’s cottage. 

He kept out a careful look, however, in the direc- 
tion of the house, since this was the one habitation 


THE COWARD 


45i 


that he was practically obliged to pass, even though 
it was almost inconceivable that he should be seen; 
and it was not unnatural, therefore, that he should 
notice a peculiar light that came and went oddly 
in the ground floor of the south wing. ... At 
first he thought the phenomenon might arise from 
the movement of branches between him and an un- 
shuttered lighted window ; so he stopped to observe, 
himself still in the darkness of the belt of trees he 
was traversing, since a lighted window might mean 
danger to himself. . . . 

The result of his investigations after two or three 
minutes’ watching was peculiar. First, very quickly 
he drew out the bones of the air-gun; then he un- 
wrapped a net; then he took out the ferret and 
wrapped her up in the net; then he took off the 
other nets, made a bundle of the whole, and put 
it very carefully down a rabbit-hole with which he 
was familiar. John Brent was a good fellow; he 
had nothing but honour, and even affection, for the 
Great Powers who provided him so abundantly, 
though unwittingly, with game; and it was not to 
be thought of that their House should be afire and 
he not warn the authorities. 

Then, in his tennis-shoes, with a fragmentary 
explanation of his own presence framing itself in 
his mind as he ran, he went at full speed across the 
wet grass, right up to the billiard-room window, 


45 2 


THE COWARD 


whence the light and smoke were now bellying out ; 
and presently, with his hands to his mouth, was 
bawling aloud, careless of his own personal safety. 
As soon as a window went up he shouted a sentence, 
tore round to the front, and began pealing at the bell. 

(m) 

It is astonishing how quickly a house can be 
roused where there is a real necessity. In three 
minutes windows were being thrown up, and Charles 
was on his headlong way to the stables. In five 
minutes the stable bell was pealing and horses were 
being saddled. In ten minutes riders were gone in 
three directions after fire-engines; in twelve minutes 
every soul in the house was assembled in the hall, 
maids in skirts and shawls, men in shirts and trousers 
— except those who were circulating vehemently 
round the south side of the south wing, and begin- 
ning to organise a supply of water. All lights were 
turned full on, except in the bedrooms, and the 
great house blazed among its trees and lawns as if 
en fete. Great shadows wheeled across the grass, 
and a clamour of shouting and bells filled the air. 

It was astonishing too how quickly Val assumed 
the commandership. He was out of doors and 
round the corner of the south wing in his pyjamas 
and evening shoes before Masterman was in the hall, 
and he was back again issuing orders by the time 


THE COWARD 


453 


that Mr. Watson with a troop of stablemen burst 
round the corner on to the terrace. Val leaped on 
to the low wall above the steps and began to 
shout : 

“ Watson, choose six men and form a line 
from the well with buckets; throw water from the 
outside into the windows without stopping. . . . 

You’ve sent for engines? That’s right. . . . 

Masterman, go back into the hall and begin to take 
down the portraits. The maids must help you : we 
can’t spare any men. Pile all the portraits out here, 
on the terrace — that side. Then go on with the 
furniture. Oh! by the way, send someone. No 
Charles! Charles! . . 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Charles thrust up his hand out of the seething 
crowd. (His face had a smear of black already 
across it.) 

“ Charles, go round all the bedrooms — all , like 
the wind, and see that everyone’s out; then come 
back to me. . . . Mrs. Markham. Where are 

you, Mrs. Markham? . . . Please see that 

none of the maids go near the fire without leave. 
Please stand in the hall for the present. James, I 
want you here. And . . . and William — ” 

(The footman came obediently out, followed by the 
groom.) “ Stand here : I’ll want you in a minute.” 

“ Master Val ” 


454 


THE COWARD 


“ That you, Masterman ? . . . I can’t hear. 

Oh! hold your row, you maids. Go back into the 
hall at once — at once , I tell you. . . . Yes: 

and shut the door. Shut the door! I can’t hear, 

Masterman. ... Go and do as I told 

you. . . . William. James. Oh! there you 

are. Where’s Charles? . . . Never mind. 

Come in, you chaps.” 

Val leapt down again from the wall. 

He had his plan clear-cut in a moment or two. 
That is one advantage of an imagination: its pos- 
sessor can see a number of things all at the same 
time. 

He had been awakened by Charles, had sprung 
out of bed entirely alert, and had run straight out 
and round the house to the billiard-room windows. 
There he had made his diagnosis from outside, to 
the effect that the fire had broken out in the billiard- 
room — the last room on the east end of the south 
wing — and had communicated itself to the smok- 
ing-room next door. He supposed this was so, 
from the fact that the fire, seen through the shut- 
ters, was far brighter in the first than in the sec- 
ond room. (Probably, he thought, a fused wire 
had started it.) Then he had torn back through 
the hall, had laid his hand on the billiard-room 


THE COWARD 


455 


door, and then drawn back, startled by the roar of 
flames from within. He knew it was dangerous to 
create any further draught, and had understood 
that all that could be done for the present was to 
pelt water into the windows from the outside until 
the engines came. Then he had locked the door 
and thrust the key into his jacket-pocket. Then 
he had run back and issued his orders as the crowd 
of servants surged out on to the terrace. 

(IV) 

Charles came down the stairs into the hall, three 
stairs at a time, after accomplishing his errand — 
(he had found all the servants’ bedrooms empty, 
with the exception of one in which the new scullery- 
maid was putting on her stockings) — just in time 
to see Master Val followed by the two men vanish 
through the door into the south wing. He turned 
and darted after them, as they bolted into the 
morning-room, where Lady Beatrice had a number 
of treasures — portraits, silver, furniture. This 
was next to the smoking-room, and was, obviously, 
the next room to be threatened. But on the thresh- 
old Val turned. 

“ Charles ! Oh ! there you are. ... Go up 
the back stairs, and see if you can get into the 
rooms above these others. If you can, chuck 


THE COWARD 


456 

everything you can out of the windows. Don’t be 
an ass and throw the china, now. . . 

Charles was gone, hearing already from outside 
the voices of the stablemen, and the crash and hiss 
of water as the buckets were emptied into the burn- 
ing windows on his left. By extraordinary good 
fortune the fire had broken out in the wing not fifty 
yards distant from the well from which the house 
tanks were filled. 

The rooms looked strangely quiet and peaceful 
after the rush and confusion below, as he switched 
on the electric light at the doors. The. smoke* was 
already oozing up through the floors, but the atmos- 
phere was still perfectly bearable. He ran to the 
windows and threw them open, and then began his 
task — first tearing down the curtains with great 
common sense as the most inflammable articles, and 
then setting to work to toss out pictures, chairs, 
rugs. . . . They were the bedrooms of the 

master of the house and his wife. 

After a quarter of an hour the heat and the 
smoke became suddenly intolerable. He snatched 
at a little inlaid desk which he had overlooked and 
tried to get to the window. But a great burst of 
smoke met him, and he staggered back choking, 
dropped the desk and bolted, forgetting to turn out 
the lights, that already were shining like street 


THE COWARD 


457 

lamps in a fog. He banged the door behind him, 
and after a long gasp or two ran downstairs. 

“Good Lord,” cried Val. “Are you all right? 
Finished?” 

“Pretty well, Master Val. But I haven’t — ” 

“ Come and help here. . . . Where are 

those blasted engines ? ” 

The morning-room was nearly empty. The 
Persian carpets were gone; the little tables, the 
cabinets, the pictures, the chairs — all these lay in 
confusion outside the windows on the trampled 
grass and the flower-beds — visible in the bright 
light that streamed out through the open windows. 
In the same light, growing now a little yellowish 
and smoky, could be seen the figures of the stable- 
men outside, passing buckets like fiends. Mr. 
Watson’s voice could be heard shouting directions 
now and again, but the roar of the fire grew louder 
and the crackling more insistent. 

Master Val and the two men were struggling 
now with a great black cabinet, certainly not too 
large to be passed through the wide-flung windows, 
but apparently too heavy to be moved across the 
slippery floors. Charles plunged into the group 
and added his weight. 

And then suddenly Charles heard Master Val 
swear distinctly. 

“Good God! I’ve left the muniment-room.” 


458 


THE COWARD 


“ Charles ! take charge here. When you’ve got 
this out, do the best you can ” 

“ Master Val. . . ” 

But Val was gone. 

Five seconds later Masterman, still toiling at 
the portraits, of which ten or twelve were already 
down from the walls and piled on the terrace out- 
side, saw him running and dodging the bewildered 
maids, between the disordered tables and chairs, 
and disappearing in the direction of the library. 
He called feebly after him, but there was no an- 
swer. The white-clad figure was gone. And then 
back he came a minute later, and a little bunch of 
keys clinked from his finger as he ran. 

“ Master Val ” 

But Val was gone again; and a moment later 
Charles, emerging from the morning-room, saw him 
through the thin smoke flash into sight from the 
direction of the hall, and dash up the first steps of 
the back staircase that led to the floor above. 

He was after him in a second, and had him by the 
arm at the top of the first flight. 

“ Master Val. . . . You can’t; it’s impos- 
sible. It’s all ” 

“ Bosh ! let go. . . 

“ Master Val, sir.” 

“ Let go, will you.” 


You don't understand.” 


THE COWARD 


459 

There was a scuffle. Then the boy tore himself 
free. 

“ It’s all right, I tell you,” he shouted straight 
in the man’s face, and was gone. 

“ Master Val, you can’t. It’ll be afire by now.” 

But there was no answer. Already from over- 
head came a great gust of smoke, and Charles, star- 
ing up with -blinded eyes, saw that the ceiling above 
the top of the stairs had vanished in clouds. But 
no flame was visible; it did not look particularly 
dangerous, after all, just yet. 

(v) 

Mr Watson had worked like a Trojan. He was 
naturally both stout and agitated; but he had his 
men in excellent disciplinary order, and for the first 
half-hour or so had, with his own hands, thrown 
into the billiard-room windows the water that was 
passed to him, bucket by bucket, by the six men' 
behind. One pumped, the rest passed from hand to 
hand. Then Mr. Watson, exhausted, had taken his 
place second in the line, and watched the muscular 
stable-keeper do the work of the actual throw- 
ing. 

It was, of course, still pitch dark so far as day- 
light was concerned, but the light from the win- 
dows blazed out in all directions on to lawns and 


460 


THE COWARD 


trees and black agitated figures. Charles had 
finished throwing valuables out of the first floor by 
now, and under Mr. Watson’s directions a water- 
carrier had been dispensed from his business to re- 
move these out of harm’s way, as well as those 
from the morning-room. When the great black 
cabinet emerged at last and crashed down among 
the autumn flowers, Mr. Watson himself lent a 
hand to remove it some twenty yards across the 
grass. 

It was as he let go of this at last, panting and 
sweating, that he heard his name called vehemently, 
without any prefix. 

“ Watson! Watson!” shrieked a young man’s 
voice across the din of the voices, the rumble of 
furniture, and the roar of the fire. 

He looked up, and there, perfectly visible in the 
clearly lighted room overhead, where just now had 
been shuttered darkness, was Master Val in his 
pyjamas, dancing with excitement. His hands 
were full, it seemed; the heavy bars of the window- 
frame showed like a network against his figure. 

The coachman ran up. 

“ I’m going to chuck things out,” cried the voice. 
“ I want you to watch and guard them.” 

“ Master Val, come down: it isn’t safe: the next 
room ” 

“ It’s all right here. Here, catch.” 


THE COWARD 


461 


A heavy parcel that crackled as with paper as it 
fell, crashed through the man’s hands and fell. 

“ Pick ’em up. Don’t lose them, for God’s sake.’' 

And the figure was gone again. 

Then parcel after parcel flew out. The window 
was some twenty-five to thirty feet high, as the 
rooms below were built up on a half-sunken base- 
ment; and the bundles, each wrapped in a rug or 
curtain, descended with considerable impetus, now 
and again accompanied by the crash of glass. 
While Mr. Watson stooped to pick each up, the 
white figure vanished again, and was ready once 
more by the time that the last bundle had been 
added to the heap. 

Then there was a pause. 

“ Come down, Master Val, for God’s sake. The 


Then once more the figure appeared empty- 
handed, gesticulating. 

For a moment the man did not understand. Be- 
hind him, in a momentary stillness, he could hear 
the sobbing of the men’s breath as bucket after 
bucket still passed up the diminished line; then the 
roar of flame bellowed out again, and drowned the 
words screamed from overhead. From the bed- 
room windows, left open by Charles, next to that 
single heavily barred window where the white figure 
shook the iron and screamed inaudible words, great 


462 


THE COWARD 


tongues of red and orange flame pierced, like 
crooked swords, the huge volume of smoke that 
poured up now into the dark sky, alight with sparks 
and burning tinder. From beyond the house, as 
each new burst of flame died into comparative quiet, 
came the sound of the stable bell still pealing des- 
perately, and the voices of shouting men. . . . 

Then the terrified, bewildered man understood, 
and with a loud cry and a grotesque gesture, set off, 
shouting vague directions to the crowd in general, 
full speed for the front of the house and the only 
open door by which he could gain access to the 
interior of the south wing. 

(VI) 

It must have been almost immediately after this 
that the men, still desperately passing buckets from 
hand to hand, caught a sight of that solitary 
screaming figure, and understood too. 

One at the inquest said that he ran for ladders; 
but they were all gone from their place in the stable- 
yard — taken, no doubt, to help in the removal of 
the portraits; and that when he came back it was 
all over. 

Another said that he made an attempt to fling 
water — it was the only thing he thought of — but 
that the window was too high to reach. 

A third said that he ran round too, to try to get 


THE COWARD 


46.3 

up by the back staircase to the muniment-room, but 
found it already ablaze. He then tried the front 
staircase, and here too, beyond the baize doors that 
led through into the south wing on the level of the 
first floor, there was just one furnace of flame. 
Mr. Watson was here, he said, screaming like a 
madman. . . . He had to hold him back. 

It is plain, however, how the end came ; and what 
those saw who stood helpless and watched — 
the men who dropped their buckets and stared; the 
crowd of half-dressed men and women from the 
village, who had been surging up for the last half- 
hour and now formed a ring of terrified spectators 
thirty yards away, on the edge of the south lawn. 

Val had stayed too long in the muniment-room, 
and on opening the door to escape must have been 
met by an outburst of fire. It is probable that 
even then he might have escaped, if he had dashed 
for it instantly ; but he must have lost his head, and 
run back, hopelessly and instinctively locking the 
door, from a possible to a certain death. For the 
bars of the muniment-room windows cut off the last 
possibility of life. 

There then he stood screaming and crying, shak- 
ing at the bars like a savage, in full view of the 
crowd. Now and again his figure and his distorted 
face disappeared in gusts of smoke from beneath. 

. . . But the horror of it all was that he lost all 


464 


THE COWARD 


control over himself. . . . Phrases, fragments 

of sentences, the names of God and Christ — these 
were heard again and again by the helpless watch- 
ers. Once he disappeared; and all thought that 
the floor had fallen, for the windows of the morn- 
ing-room beneath were now merely squares of 
flame. But he must have run once more to shake 
the door and scream for the help that could not 
come. . . . For he was there again at the win- 

dow a moment later, mad with fear, dashing him- 
self at the bars, wrenching at them. . . . 

And then the end came, mercifully swift. 

A great crash sounded out above the roar of the 
flames. A vast explosion of smoke, lit house-high 
by a torrent of sparks and fire, burst out of all the 
windows at once. And when it cleared the figure 
was gone; and the noise of a clanging bell grew 
louder and louder behind as the first engine from 
Blakiston came at a gallop up the drive. 


EPILOGUE 


44T HAVE come to ask your reasons for writing 

A as you did/’ said Lady Beatrice ; “ I must 
thank you very much for writing at all. It was 
kind of you, at any rate.” 

The priest sat down again in the chair he had left 
when she was shown in. 

She was as pathetic as crape and genuine grief 
could make her. She had pushed her black veil up, 
on coming in; and her beautiful, aging face was 
white and a little thin. 

It was three weeks now since the funeral. Up 
there at the house all still looked desolate. The 
south wing was now altogether demolished, and a 
temporary wall of brick was built across the charred 
end of the great hall and across the passages above. 
The family was to leave for Egypt in a few days’ 
time, until the work of restoration was complete. 
It would probably be finished by the early summer. 
It was known that Austin was to go with them. 

“ I wrote,” said the priest as quietly and naturally 
as he could, “ because I had had three or four long 

465 


466 


THE COWARD 


talks with your son Valentine; and I think I may 
say he gave me his confidence. I understood that it 
was what you yourself wished him to do.” 

“ Certainly I suggested it to him.” 

“ Just so. . . . So I did not communicate 

with you. . . . Well, you will forgive my say- 

ing this; but you know people will talk; and the 
explanation given of . . . of various things 

that have happened — at the funeral, for instance 
— is that General Medd is ashamed of his son. If 
I am wrong in that, I have nothing but apologies. 
But I was informed that this was so; and I thought 
it better not to shelter behind the plea of gossip, 
but to tell you outright that there is nothing to be 
ashamed of.” 

In spite of the heaviness that lay on her, she was 
conscious once again of surprise that he was so 
simple and direct. There was no conventional 
tenderness in his voice or manner. And she was 
surprised too that she did not find herself in the 
least resenting it. She hesitated before answer- 
ing. 

“ That is ‘ perfectly true,” she said; “ though I 
do not know how such things have come to be said. 
But it is perfectly true that our chief grief lies in 
our knowledge of how . . . how he behaved 

in the face of danger. You see it was not the 
first time. There was that affair in Rome only 


THE COWARD 467 

this Easter . . . there was his behaviour in 

Switzerland. Perhaps he did not tell of that?” 

“ He told me everything,” said the priest. 

Her beautiful eyes filled suddenly with tears. 

“ I am glad,” she said. “ But that makes no 
real difference. ... It must seem terrible to 
you that I can speak of him like this, poor boy! 
. . . But it is more terrible to us that he . . . 
that he . . .” 

“ That he seems to you to have behaved like a 
coward? ” 

“ Yes. . . . You see everyone saw it. He 

. . . he behaved dreadfully at the window. 

He ... he lost his life through it too.” 

“ Have you considered that he did a brave thing 
in going up to the room at all? ” 

“ Yes,” she said. “ But it did not seem to him 
dangerous at the time. (Iam just saying what my 
husband has said to me. ) He thought that the way 
was clear. . . . Oh! it seems cruel to speak 

like this; but you understand, don’t you, Father 
Maple, that it is just our love for him and our pride 

in him ” (She broke off.) “ And then when 

he saw the danger he . . . he . . . Ah! 

I couldn’t say this to anyone else. ... I 
haven’t said a word. But you do understand 
how . . . how all this hurts us. I . . .” 

She covered her face suddenly with her hands. 


468 


THE COWARD 


The priest waited, motionless and silent, till she 
got her grief and misery under control. Then she 
looked up again at him, hopelessly. 

“ Will you listen to me carefully, Lady Beatrice? 
I wrote that letter to you with full knowledge of 
what I was doing — that letter in which I said that 
I considered your son to have been markedly 
courageous. Will you hear my reasons ? ” 

She nodded. But there was no hope in her face. 
It was the look of one who felt herself bound in 
justice to hear the other side. 

“ Well, I must begin by repeating what I said to 
your son that first time he came to see me. . . . 

“ There are two kinds of courage — the physical 
courage of the brute, and the moral courage of the 
man. Your son had not the first. He had a very 
sensitive and imaginative temperament — a very 
highly strung nervous system. Now at least twice 
or three times this temperament of his overcame 
him — in Switzerland and in Rome — to take two 
instances only.” 

She looked at him swiftly, with a question in her 
eyes. 

“ Yes, and there were other instances. But take 
those two. . . . Now he was horribly ashamed 

of it. And the first really morally brave thing 
he did was to come and tell me. He need not have 


THE COWARD 


469 


told me. It required a very high degree of courage 
indeed to come. He had never been taught to con- 
fide in anyone. And he made no excuses. He 
told me that he had found out he was a coward; 
and he wanted to know what he was to do. . . . 

“ Just think over that quietly, Lady Beatrice. 
There is more in it than appears to you now. The 
real coward goes on making excuses to the end. 
He made none — at the end.” 

The priest paused a moment to let that sink in. 
Then he went on. 

“ Well, I told him then about the will. He 
seems never to have heard of it. For instance, I 
said that a man who did a thing he was afraid to 
do was a far finer creature than the man who was 
not afraid to do it. That is very obvious, if you 
think of it. But the conventional view is exactly 
the opposite. And the conventional view ruins 
more lives than all fanaticism put together. . . . 

“ Well, I gave him a little advice about the train- 
ing of the will. And then — now we’re coming to 
the point. . . . 

“ The last time he came to see me he said some- 
thing that seems to me now very nearly prophetic. 
I think I can remember his exact words. He said, 

' I wish something would happen that I knew was 
dangerous, but which didn’t look dangerous. I 
think I could do that. Or a thing that I knew 


470 


THE COWARD 


really was dangerous, but which I hadn’t time to 
think about.’ I asked him why. He said, 4 Be- 
cause I should do that; and then I shouldn’t feel 
so hopeless.’ 

“ Then we went on talking . . . and at the 

end he said something like this: * Suppose, after 
all, when the thing was done — done deliberately, 
knowing the danger — I collapsed and behaved like 
a cur again — would that be cowardly ? ’ I told 
him certainly not. I said that any number of peo- 
ple collapsed when the thing was done ; and that the 
fact that they did showed what a tremendous strain 
they must have been under, and how splendidly 
they must have been controlling themselves. . . . 

“ Lady Beatrice, do you see my point of view at 
all now?” (The priest leaned forward, gripping 
the arms of his chair. Underneath his quiet voice 
and face he was intensely moved.) “ I don’t think 
that either you or his father — if you will forgive 
me for saying so — understood the boy in the 
slightest. You do not understand how terribly he 
felt things, how his sensitive nature gave him the 
most acute pain, how his imagination dressed things 
up. If he had yielded to all this and given in — 
even then I could not have blamed him very greatly. 
But this was exactly what he did not do. He 
fought tooth and nail against it. And . . . 

and then God gave him exactly the opportunity he 


THE COWARD 


47i 


was asking for. He knew the danger perfectly. 
Why, he said to one of the men, * You don’t un- 
derstand,’ as he ran up. And then, when he had 
done his work he collapsed. Do you blame him for 
that? I don’t. He had his opportunity at last, 
and he took it.” 

She sat still, looking at the priest. Outside the 
cold November sunshine lay on the garden where 
Val and the priest had talked together for the last 
time scarcely more than a month ago; the chairs 
they had sat in were now locked up in the little 
brick summer-house at the end. And across the 
way, over the low churchyard wall, was the long 
mound, in the shadow of the high-shouldered 
Norman tower, beneath which lay the body of her 
son who had disgraced his name. And she did not 
understand, even now. She saw only a minister of 
religion whose business it was to console and to say 
soothing things, not a priest whose business in life 
it is to understand motive and intention and to in- 
terpret events by those things. 

She got up, painfully, with the help of her stick. 

“ Thank you very much, Father Maple. It is 
very kind of you to have seen me. Our old nurse, 

you know, said the same ” She broke off, and 

then continued, “ I will think over what you have 
said. . . . The poor boy!” (Her eyes filled 

again with tears.) 


472 


THE COWARD 


But he saw she had not understood. She remem- 
bered the external facts only ; she had seen nothing 
of that other realm which he had tried to describe, 
and not even a glimpse of that blind, lovable 
charity by which it seemed that even the old nurse 
had seen so deep. 

“ You are going to Egypt, I think ?” he said at 
the hall door. 

“ Yes. . . . We shall be back, we hope, in 
the spring. They will have finished the building 
by then. . . . Thank you so much, once 

more.” 


THE END 


































































































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